


A Bitter, Sweet Life

by OccasionallyCreative



Series: Universes [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Clothed Sex, Domestic Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Past Domestic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>February, 1958. One week before Lent, a rural quaint English village has its feathers ruffled when the old bakery is reopened as a chocolate shop by a new tenant, Sherlock Holmes. The mayor of the village, Mycroft Holmes, believes firmly in routine and order and societal rank. Immediately rankled by his brother’s presence in the village, Mycroft’s frustrations are furthered when a group of Travellers arrive in the village and make their home on the village’s river.</p><p>Among them is Molly Hooper, who Sherlock begins to take an interest in. But with knowing Molly comes a startling realisation for the youngest Holmes brother: his life, perfect as it is, might just be in need of repair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Precious Values

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, it's a Chocolat AU. Part of the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang Challenge, this fic compromises of 11 chapters with art done by the lovely o0katiekins0o and beta'd by pvivax, who has been wonderful all the way through the time I've been writing.
> 
> The Explicit rating is for later chapters, and trigger warnings will be given with each relevant chapter. And though other pairings are listed in the tags, this is foremost a Sherlolly story.
> 
> And last but not least - I hope you enjoy the story, and let's have fun with this Sherlolly Big Bang Challenge!

_February, 1958. One week before Lent._

Once upon a time, squirreled away in the quainter parts of the English countryside, there was situated a village. In that village, there was a sincere belief in the idea of something the French would term  _tranquilite._  Every person had their place, and every day had its own schedule. Any anxieties or misgivings were swept underneath the carpet and not discussed, thank you very much. There was a routine to this village’s way of life.

A routine however, can grow staid. Sometimes, an East Wind was needed. A reminder was needed. A reminder that life can perhaps, with effort, be just that little bit more than what it had been made to be. That was precisely what the residents of that peaceful village would get, whether they wanted it or not.

* * *

Sunday was always a quiet time in the village. The people would wake, have their breakfast, and indulge in some local gossip as they congregated at the doors of the church. They would sit, they would pray, they would receive sacrament and they would listen to the sermons as delivered by Father Lestrade.

Where you sat in the congregation was an important point of interest among the people of the village. If you were sat at or near the back, you either were suffering from a contagious disease, a recent resident in the village or worst of all, an irregular churchgoer. To sit in the middle was to be neutral; or at least invisible. If you witnessed something you weren’t supposed to witness, you bit your tongue. You remained silent, and penitent and pure. To sit in the front was a mark of your status. It spoke of your wealth, your family’s history, your value within the community. Sat at the very front was always the Mayor. Carrying an air of superiority, he was polite enough when it mattered and was firm when the situation called for it; he was, unquestionably, a ruler.

On that Sunday, the Sunday before Lent, there was a certain tension in the village and the church was colder. It was a chill that usually came with thoughts of sacrifice. Some in the village embraced Lent with open arms. Others viewed it as a necessary evil. Father Lestrade seemed to know this, for his sermon was even vaguer than usual, fluffing between instruction and reflection.

“We should – ah – take Lent for not what it is but for – err – what it can give us, in exchange for our – our sacrifice…”

* * *

Martha Hudson was a sinner. The whole village knew of the fact, even though the aforementioned fact wasn’t  _entirely_  true. For she was not a sinner, but instead a woman who happened to find it more useful to nap in the confines of her own home rather than devote her time to the social mores of the church.

So, as the other members of the village filed solemnly into the church and exchanged whispers under the knowing eye of Mayor Mycroft Holmes, Martha would hum as she quietly cooked herself some food and settled into her favourite chair. As the rest of the village listened to Father Lestrade with false smiles of encouragement, she carefully stoked the fire in the hearth. As small children itched at the collars of their Sunday best (and were promptly told off by their mothers for doing so), Martha leaned back in her chair and allowed herself to sink into the familiar sense of drowsiness that came with her daily cigarette.

Normally, it was only the sharp and insistent whistle of the kettle that would wake her from her slumber. Of course, this was not to be any normal or ordinary day, but Martha had no knowledge of this. So when she heard not the familiar whistle of the kettle but an insistent knock on her front door, she jerked awake and swore. Gripping her cane she muttered and fussed her way up to her feet and towards the door, opening it.

The sight she was greeted with was that of a man, and one she did not quite recognise. Martha blinked as she took in his form. He wore a crisp white shirt and dark jeans, and over that he wore a leather jacket, the collar flipped up to his neck. A cigarette dangled loosely between his fingers. He looked up as the door opened.

“Go away,” Martha said irritably. “I’m not giving any money to beggars.”

The man smiled a smooth smile. “I assure you, I’m not a beggar. I’ve actually come to inquire about your bakery.”

* * *

“Wonderful sermon today, vicar,” Mycroft drawled as he stepped through the narrow arched doorway and into the vestry. Small though the vestry was, it was a custom for him to visit it after any church service. The previous vicar had welcomed this particular custom with ease, but Father Lestrade had yet to grow used to the tradition. His verger did not bother to hide her contempt for what she viewed as interference on Mycroft’s part. As such, it was often with a glare or a clipped greeting that she received him. Today was no exception, and Lestrade nudged her quickly before he spoke with a smile.

“Thank you very much sir. I, err, did take a look at the notes you gave me—”

“And didn’t use them.” Mycroft gently brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder and raised an eyebrow as he looked to Lestrade. “I heard.”

Lestrade’s smile grew slack. He scratched a little at the back of his ear. “Yes, well, I—”

“Father Lestrade, how long do you think the previous vicar lived and preached here?”

“Oh, um – I think – couple of decades, wasn’t it? At least, that’s what Sal told me.”

Mycroft gave a slight sigh. “He was with us for fifty years, Father Lestrade. Perhaps you may pray that you can live up to his example?”

Lestrade’s smile grew slacker still.

* * *

The bakery in question was located just off the main square of the village, and had been procured by Martha’s husband from the previous mayor in the youth of their marriage. His claim for the investment had been that even if they themselves did not use it, someone else inevitably would. “The people need their bread.” Over the 50 years of their marriage, that had remained his mantra and for as long as that, not one person had taken possession of nor ever inquired about the small bakery. It remained closed and unloved by everyone, even her husband after a time. The bakery came to represent everything he had lost and everything he had rejected, and after his long-awaited death, Martha had never once stepped foot inside of it.

Perhaps that was why the key was stuck. Another string of muttered swearing tripped easily from Martha’s tongue as she pulled and pushed at the door until finally, after one last flick of her wrist, the key budged and the door swung open.

She leaned a little on her cane and left a thin trail of cigarette smoke behind her as she hobbled inside. The man behind her—who had said nothing after his initial greeting to her—slowly followed on as both he and Martha witnessed up to fifty six years of indifference.

It would have been too kind to call the place ramshackle. It was so much more than that. Like the dust, the neglect formed layer upon layer on every surface available to it. Boxes and display cases were stacked carelessly in corners and up against the bare walls. The paint, red but now pink and pale with age, was peeling badly whilst the floor was smudged with the dirt of forgotten footprints.

“The price is twenty pounds a week. You’ll get the flat above too,” Martha said, and when she received no reply, she followed on as the man retreated into the kitchen. Extensive though it was, it had fared worse than the front of the shop. Cupboard doors hung off their hinges. Dirt and dust covered the windows and the worktops. The man still said nothing. He made no complaints as he wandered almost aimlessly around the room, pausing occasionally open a cupboard or draw his finger along one of the worktops. He even made the mistake of turning on one of the taps. Into life the disused plumbing sprang. Muddied water spat from the spigot. Martha cleared her throat, uncomfortable.

“Alright,  _ten_  pounds a week. I’ll do you a deal.”

The man nodded and produced a wallet from the inside of his jacket to fish out four crisp ten pound notes. With a hint of a smile, he pressed them onto the work surface but made no effort to bring it closer to her. Instead, he watched as she hobbled forward and scooped the money up from the table. She eyed him as he leaned against the worktop.

“Who are you then? What’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He offered his hand to her, but she did not take it. Her eyes narrowed.

“Where are you from?”

He gave a shrug and scratched lightly at his cheek. “France, mostly. A bit of Spain. To be more specific, Boulogne, Cadiz, Andalucía, Egremont, Saxony, Lower Saxony – and Pavia for a while.”

“You’re well-travelled then.”

“Have been for most of my life.”

Martha hesitated to smile at this, even though she didn’t quite know where her hesitation had come from. She liked to think it came from the heavy sigh that had come before her new tenant’s statement, but the real reason was plain. There had been an edge to the man’s words. A decisiveness nature which told her the subject had been closed before it had a chance to begin. With a sigh, she dropped the key onto the worktop and departed, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

On a usual day, Mycroft would have gone about his usual business. On a usual day, he would have passed the bakery without a mere thought about what was inside. On a usual day, he would not have seen Martha Hudson walk from the shop, cane in one hand, and money in the other. Everyone in the village knew of her reluctance to enter into that bakery, so to see her shuffling out of the shop with an expression of mild concern but overall content on her features was not one that made Mycroft Holmes particularly comfortable.

Walking towards the bakery, he pushed at the door. Already ajar, it opened with ease. He stepped through and glanced at the abandoned space. The dust, the darkness, the dirt was all there. The place was empty as it had always been.

“Hello?” He sighed through his nose when there came no reply. His gaze fell on the main shop window. The remnants of the last owner, letters painted in gold and black, were hidden among the brown-coloured grime. That in itself was an echo, a film against the glass speaking of thunderstorms and winds and changing seasons.

Footsteps made him turn. A shadow appeared on the stairs, and its possessor followed. Mycroft swallowed, jaw tightening as he glanced over the new tenant. In return, the new tenant tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

“You called?” Renting a bakery that hadn’t been used in 50 years. Mycroft rolled his eyes. He should’ve expected it. It was just  _his_  kind of theatrics.

“Is it wise,” Mycroft began, “to open a bakery in this sort of village? It’s the week before Lent.”

“Oh. Is it?” He moved forward, an inane grin growing. His black hair was unkempt, as usual. “Well, I suppose it’s just as well that this won’t be a bakery. Isn’t it?”

The asinine drawl hadn’t changed either. Mycroft gave a heavy sigh, shifting his weight on each foot.

“Sir.” Mycroft turned his head at the sound of a quick tap on the shop door. Anthea, soft brown hair scooped into a bun, stood behind the glass. She wiped her fingers free of dust on the breast pocket of her dark green jacket and beckoned. “You need to collect your rent.”

He nodded. “I’ll be a moment.”

Turning back, he directed a singular and crisp nod. “Good luck,” were his crisp, shortly spoken words, but if he was to receive thanks for it, he did not stay to hear it.


	2. Curiosity Killed the Cat

Not a day had gone by before the new tenant at the bakery began to set about his business. Usually, when a stranger made it clear that they were to make the village their home, it was a tradition in the village for people to find out as much as possible as soon as possible about the new arrival. This took about two days, perhaps three.

After the fact-finding came the gossip. Within the village, gossip worked in a series of stages. First there were the off-hand remarks (“Martha’s finally rented that old bakery, apparently.”) while the women were getting their hair styled and the men played poker in the local bar. These remarks were often heard with a feigned disinterested noise and followed by a murmur of assent. The second stage was the fuel for the forthcoming fire. People who had a friend who knew someone would casually drop a fact into the conversation, quietly commenting they had been told, under no uncertain terms, that Martha Hudson had let a radical take over the old bakery. Then would come the third stage; the most malicious of all. Reality and rumour blurred together over games of poker and sessions of afternoon tea. If something, an opinion maybe, was planted inside one mind it would travel to another, and another, and another, until the inevitable took place. Gossip transmogrified into accepted fact. The radical became an atheist; the atheist became a liberal. Fiction became reality.

So they all watched, exchanging muttered remarks, as the new tenant stood outside his shop and washed and wiped and polished the windows until they glittered against the morning sun. Their puzzlement grew as he went on to plaster his windows with newspapers and allowed delivery men, brusque and cheerful in their conversation, to step inside the old bakery with stacks of boxes wedged between their strong arms. Puzzlement grew into abject shock when an elderly widow rushed into her daughter’s salon to hurriedly tell her she had witnessed the liberal hanging a chocolate shop sign above the old bakery. And when news spread that the liberal had dared to wink at her and speak to her, there was soon only one topic and one name on the lips of the village’s residents: Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

She tucked her bag against her shoulder and watched him with a concerned eye. She brushed her hair out of her eyes, and tilted her head.

“Sir,” her fingers danced, tentative, against his desk, “does he bother you?”

“Who?”

“Sherlock. He’s all they talk about,” she said with a slight laugh and she glanced out of the window. “Out there.”

Mycroft glanced back at the paper in front of him. He waved a hand.

“He’ll be out of business in a month. Tell me – do we have any room for another article in the newsletter?”

Anthea shook her head. “Not that I know of. Perhaps that article could wait until next month?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Shifting the article to one side, Mycroft folded his hands in front of him and looked up at his assistant. She gave a small smile. “No-one’s really bothered about the history of the village fountain, after all.”

“No, no – they’re not.” The tip of her tongue darted out, running over her bottom lip in thought. Her smile widened and she brought her arms up to hug tightly at her waist. “How is – how’s your wife, sir? You haven’t mentioned—”

“She’s extending her trip around Europe.” Mycroft’s fingers touched at the silver wedding ring wrapped so tightly against his finger. He’d been young when he’d acquired it. No wonder he’d more grown around it than with it. He swallowed and got to his feet, though he had little idea why. “She wants to spend more time in Italy. Goodnight Anthea.”

“Good evening, sir.” Her hair swayed slightly as she moved her head in a single nod. She turned and Mycroft watched the tendrils, naturally curled at the ends, of her hair flick upwards as she reached back and tied her hair into a ponytail, exposing the length of her neck. Throwing one brief smile over her shoulder at him, she walked out of his office and down the stairs.

“Right – right. Alright.” Brushing himself down Mycroft cleared his throat, loudly, and moved away from his desk. Almost immediately returning he swiped at the neatly typed and soon forgotten article, _How a Fountain Managed to Stand the Test of Time for 150 Years_ , and filed it away.

* * *

The morning of the bakery’s opening was announced via a small sign in the shop window, and on the announced morning, almost half the village were gathered outside the window of the old bakery. A layer of chatter covered the waiting crowd. Eight o’clock came and went. Other shops in the village unlocked their doors and gave warm greetings to their customers. Nine o’clock came and went. Still the old bakery, its new sign moving with the breeze, remained shut. Some of the crowd idly checked their watches; some gave heavy sighs and some let their eyes stray towards the still-covered window. Ten o’clock came. The village clock struck. Some in the crowd and huffed and began to move away, reasoning to their friends that liberals like him never opened on time.

The layers of newspaper came away from the window bit by bit. The crowd froze. Friends beckoned their departing companions to return. The liberal’s face appeared in the window, a frown etched into his brow as he removed each sheet of newspaper. With each removal came another burst of colour. Curious members of the crowd eased themselves forward. One woman’s mouth dropped open into an ‘o’. Rich golden wrappers. Royal red velvet of curtains draped behind the darkest of chocolates. White and milk chocolate swirled together in marble patterns, small circles their shapes and arranged into a spiral on a black glass plate. It all came together into one symphony, one culmination of confectionary beauty. The crowd’s eyes drank all of it in and more. The man stepped back from the window with a smirk and gasps came from the crowd. A naked woman, her skin the most luxurious white chocolate, sat atop a column of dark chocolate. Her head was tilted up, her lips were parted and her eyes stared out at the crowd of widening eyes. Every curve was exquisitely carved. The hands of an expert marked every single one of her features. Finally, the door to the chocolate shop opened.

The crowd, once so eager, began to hang back. Women jostled their husbands or their friends, promising to follow them inside. Murmurs of back-and-forth consultation sprung up within the crowd. Some turned on their heels and walked down the street, the image of the display still forefront in their minds. A heavy sigh broke through the hesitation of the crowd.

“For heaven’s sake, it’s only chocolate!” Martha hobbled forward on her cane, pushing people to the side with her hand and she darted forward towards the shop. Pressing her fingers against the glass partition of the door, she pushed it open and moved inside. A deep fresh blue had replaced the peeling red paint. Martha smiled. The air before had been thin and hollow. Now it was thick. It was safe, warm.

Two glass counters stood in the shop, one in front of the kitchen and one in front of the right-sided wall and both filled with gold-wrapped treats, painted treats, chocolates that seemed small and innocent and perfectly harmless. Shelves fixed to the wall showed more and more, and her eyes skipped over chocolates and confections that made her mouth ache to taste. Her tenant stood behind the right-sided counter and he raised an eyebrow when she looked to him.

“Is being in a chocolate shop wise for you?”

Martha shrugged. “When you’re my age dear, it as near as makes no difference.”

In front of him, there lay a clay plate. Unreadable, almost nonsensical carvings were engraved into it with a paradoxical care. To his side, a silver kettle stood. Tendrils of vapour came from the spout. China cups surrounded it, black square patterns dotted around the rim of each one. Two stools, flecked with marble grey and black, stood in front of the counter. Martha settled onto one.

“What’s that you’ve got there, in that kettle?”

“Hot chocolate,” he answered.

“Go on then. I’ll have a bit. Landlady goes free, I assume.”

He chuckled a little at her words, but said nothing. Taking up the silver kettle, he poured out a cup of the hot chocolate and reached for a small china pot. He opened the lid, and Martha craned her neck to see him take a pinch of the dark red powder and sprinkle it into the liquid. Giving it one gentle stir, he moved towards her and set it down. Martha, eyeing him, took up the cup. Outside the crowd had dispersed. The hot liquid slipped down Martha’s throat, thick and creamy and— her eyes widened. She looked again at her tenant, and he gave another laugh. This time it was a genuine laugh, full-bodied and bright, akin to the laughter of a schoolboy.

“Chilli pepper.”

Martha swallowed back the rest of the hot chocolate and joined in with his mirth with a smile. She peered at him.

“You’re not a normal chocolate shop, are you?”

He smirked. The expression soon faded when another customer entered the shop. A male, short and blonde; Martha knew him immediately. John Watson. The war veteran and doctor. He also fancied himself an occasional writer for the village’s monthly newsletter, but Martha had never held much regard for that rag. John walked slowly into the shop, most of his weight resting on his cane. His limp was more pronounced than ever. Perhaps it was the cold weather. That frequently played havoc with her hip. Her tenant scanned the man once and his fingers touched at the clay plate. On the glass surface it span and span, the mosaic pattern blending together into a shape. Martha glanced towards the plate. A small and white shape looked back. She rolled her eyes and looked away, taking another gulp of the hot chocolate.

John’s eyes swept briefly over the plate. Fingers tightening against his cane, he cleared his throat and looked to her tenant. “You run this shop then?”

Her tenant gave an amused smile. His voice dripped with a heavy drawl. “Obviously. Tell me – why use a cane? After all, it is your shoulder that’s injured. The war, I assume. Anyway, both your legs seem perfectly fine.”

John’s jaw tightened and his cheek twitched slightly. Ducking his gaze, he turned and walked slowly from the shop. Martha eyed the less pronounced limp. She aimed a withering stare at her tenant.

“Was that necessary, dear?” She nodded towards the door. “It could’ve always been his hip.”

Her tenant’s fingers reached out and stopped the spinning plate. “His hip is fine. His legs are fine, as are both his feet – though admittedly, the shoes make it harder to properly ascertain. But he puts all his weight into his good shoulder. Ergo, shot in the shoulder and a psychosomatic limp. And an unhappy marriage.”

Martha scoffed, but did not reply. She doubted her tenant would know a truly unhappy marriage if it came and bit him on the arse.

“Theresa! Theresa! Come see, come see!” The eager call came from outside and Martha turned. A little boy, dark haired with baby face cheeks and green eyes, stood at the window open-mouthed and his nose squashed against the glass. “The man’s made a chocolate shop!”

“I can see that Maxie.” Max was a boy well known in the village as an excitable sort. The sort to ask questions, even when bid not to do so by his elders. Martha had encountered him once, when he had almost knocked her over with his bicycle. He had gone on, after she had spoken to him in the coldest terms, to arrogantly declare she should have got out of the way if she knew she was about to be run over. His older sister, by contrast, was a polite young beauty who possessed a great amount of tolerance and an even greater sense of the village’s social mores. Approaching her young sibling, she gently took him by the arm and urged him away from the shop window. Max deftly wriggled his way out of her grasp and ran into the shop.

“I want you to give me the chocolate in the window,” he demanded, pointing. “The one in the gold wrapper.”

“And what about Lent?” her tenant asked, tone dry.

“We don’t attend church. But we do know that we can’t just demand sweets from people.” Theresa stepped into the shop and approached her brother, pressing her hands against his shoulders. She smiled, and looked down at her brother. “Don’t we, Maxie?”

One pout later and she was asking with a light tone of defeat how much the gold-wrapped chocolate cost.

“Three shillings. That’s rather against protocol, isn’t it? Not attending church.”

“My family is rich enough to allow us the privilege,” Theresa said, a playful tone in her voice as she dropped the money into Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock chuckled and bent down, retrieving a gold-wrapped chocolate from the counter and handing it over to Max. After a quick inspection—which involved running around to the window to check if each chocolate had the same shape—Max cheerfully began to skip down the street and away from the shop, leaving his sister to chase after him and call his name.

“Oh,” Martha said after a moment, and she smiled. “There he is. Her own little shadow.”

Her tenant squinted at her. Martha stuck a thumb towards the window. Outside, tentatively hanging back from the main square was a skinny red-haired young man, with plain features and a nervous face. Martha sighed.

“Poor boy.”

Her tenant’s eyebrows narrowed together. “Who?”

“That boy. Martin. He’s been in love with Theresa since they were children. You could always see him, running after her. But she’s the daughter of the wealthiest family in the village, so he daren’t tell her.” She paused when she saw a smile creep onto her tenant’s face, a knowing smile that made her frown. “What is it?”

Her tenant deigned not to reply.


	3. New Paths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter primarily features Mary/John, with a sliver of Martin/Theresa.

Martin Crieff had heard mutterings about the chocolate shop over the last three weeks. Almost every day, there seemed to be a new rumour flying around in the village in regards to what went on in there. A small part of him had wondered, more than once, what exactly about chocolate was so bad; what about it required such attention from the villagers. He wondered every time he passed the chocolate shop on the way to work and saw them, tucked away in the grand display. The contrast had caught his eye, at first. Displayed in a circle around a sandy white shell, they were there surrounded by red silks and darker velvets. Eight innocent milk chocolate seashells. Theresa had told him about them. She’d become a regular customer at the shop, and she always ended up buying Max what seemed to be an array of treats. Yet she never brought one treat for herself. She just spoke of those chocolate seashells. And every day, he would feel the coins in his trouser pocket jangling while he paused and paced before deciding to forget all about it.

So in the latter part of February, he was surprised to hear the door to the chocolate shop open behind him. He’d barely begun to turn when Sherlock Holmes stepped in front of him. With a polite smile, he pressed a clear bag into his hands. Chocolate seashells were gathered inside, the top fastened with a thin golden ribbon.

“On the house.”

“Um, I can’t, this—” Swallowing, Martin dropped his gaze towards the bag. He felt the weight of them. Martin felt himself smile but he shook his head. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t, he just— well, he couldn’t. Giving them to Theresa meant going up to her, it meant talking to her, and he couldn’t do that. He’d make a hash of it and he’d embarrass her, he’d embarrass himself. It would be a mess.

“She doesn’t have to know you gave them to her.”

Martin snapped his head up and peered at him. Sherlock Holmes grinned briefly and headed back into the shop. Martin looked back to the seashells. He swallowed. Eight seashells. Eight exactly.

* * *

The clay plate moved around and around, the circle spinning faster and faster, and her vision blurred. Nothing else seemed to exist. She blinked. The stones shifted in front of her eyes, and she saw her reflection in the glass of the counter. She looked almost wild, cheeks flushed pink.

“Well?” She looked up, and the asker of the question, the proprietor of the shop no-one seemed able to exclude from their conversations, stared at her. Irritation was his primary look, a thread of curiosity hidden behind the unsociable manner. Mary swallowed and stepped back from the plate. The image she had seen so briefly in the plate’s mosaic stones held on inside her head.

“I saw, um – a flame,” she answered. She pressed one cool hand to her cheeks. “A candle flame.”

“Hm.” The man turned away and looked through the shelves. “Your husband’s John Watson, isn’t he? The village doctor.”

She nodded dumbly, but upon remembering the man wasn’t looking at her, she cleared her throat.

“Yeah.”

“Married before the war.”

It wasn’t a question. Mary stared at the man properly. He was not the sort who appeared a likely owner of a chocolate shop. Though toned, he was thin, almost bordering on gangly. In a village of closely-cut hair and comb overs (for the elderly, more desperate gentleman in one’s life), his hair could be considered long even though it only came down to the collar of his shirt. He was an arranged man, as neat as the displays in his shop. Yet his eyes sparked and shone with something unknown, something mischievous.

“Yes,” she replied quietly, lowering her head. “21 years, in total.” Though one could argue their marriage had only lasted two. They’d been so young on their wedding night, his hands soft and warm against her thighs; and he had worshipped her, they had worshipped each other, every night, their mouths, their words, their bodies the means and the instruments of that worship. The war had made his hands rough and calloused, ghosts of blood still stained into his palms. 

“The pepper triangle.”

Mary looked up at the man’s words. “Mm?”

“Your favourite,” the man declared, as if it was the most obvious thing. He pushed forward a small cardboard box, plum in colour. The lip of it was open. Mary stepped forward, peering inside. Small triangles, dark with a darker red flecked through it, were laid innocently inside. Tilting her head, her eyes flicking up to meet with the man’s, she picked up one of the triangles. The smallest bite flooded her mouth with tastes that warmed her whole body. For a moment, she felt as if she was a fire, flames licking up through her limbs and circling, tighter and tighter, against her heart. Then she swallowed, and the world faded back to grey and she was once again Mary Watson, doctor’s wife.

She bought two packets. Stuffing them inside her handbag, she paused when Sherlock offered out a packet of what appeared to be beans towards her.

“They’re unrefined cocoa nibs,” he explained, seeing her hesitation, “for Doctor Watson.”

“What, like a prescription?” she asked playfully, but she shook her head. “No, my husband doesn’t eat chocolate.”

He chuckled, grinning, and pressed the bag into her palm.

* * *

When they’d first settled in the farmhouse on the edge of village, hidden down a winding country path, she’d had dreams; ideas of refurbishment, of projects that they could both come home to and be proud of. Then he’d come back with hair cropped short, a broken shoulder, a kit bag filled with her letters and dog tags around his neck. _O+, 7245560, CoE, Watson. J, (M)_.

The dog tags were tangled in his fingers, the string worn and loose and trailing on the stone floor. His head was lolled back, his mouth closed and his cheek pressed against the hard material of his armchair. His legs were propped up on a stool, ankles crossed. Through the window, the soft blue light of dusk fell in thin, square-shaped lines over his face. The radio, perched beside him on the windowsill, played slow jazz. Mary closed the front door behind her. Her keys rattled as they turned in the lock, but he didn’t stir. Entering the living room, she switched off the radio and turned to look at her sleeping husband. He was wearing a shirt, the baggy sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His trousers too were baggy, folded where his ankles were crossed. He’d lost a bit of weight in recent months. Loss of appetite, the doctor had said, due to his limp returning. It made him look older; defeated. Sighing, Mary leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, her lips gentle against his skin. Heading into the kitchen, a small and cold room, she stashed the groceries inside the kitchen cupboards. The chocolate triangles she hid in the old biscuit tin. Afterwards, she opened her handbag and searched inside. Her hands soon reached towards to the bottom of her handbag. Her fingers touched at the bag which had been given to her with a grin and no explanation, and she brought it out, examining it. It crinkled slightly in her hand, the cocoa beans (nibs, so he’d called them) shifting as she turned the bag. She glanced over her shoulder. John was still asleep, a slight snore coming from his mouth.

Mary shook her head. She turned and as she went to head upstairs, she threw the beans towards the bin. The steps creaked a little with her quick footsteps. The beans, discarded so by her, lay innocently on the kitchen floor besides the bin she had missed.

* * *

John Watson jerked awake with a snort. The radio which had lulled him so into sleep was switched off. Above him he heard the distant sound of a hoover and the creak of the floorboards. John sighed and shifted in his armchair, throwing his dog tags onto the windowsill. It was just like every other evening they spent in this farmhouse. Him asleep in his armchair; Mary, his wife, upstairs doing the housework. The man he’d been before the war would’ve cringed at that kind of routine. He squinted in the half-darkness of the living room. The kitchen light had been left on. His stomach rumbled. Nudging away the stool with his feet, he grabbed his cane and pushed himself up onto his feet. He rubbed at his eyes blearily as he limped into the kitchen. Mary’s handbag was on the worktop, along with her keys. Above him, the sounds of the hoover stopped and he listened to her footsteps. Sometimes, that was the closest they got to contact. Him eavesdropping on her movement around the house. John moved forward towards the cupboards but immediately, he paused. He’d tripped on something. He looked down. He frowned. Crouching down, he scooped up what he’d tripped up on.

It was a clear bag, a ribbon tied around its neck. Crammed inside, there seemed to be what looked like nuts or beans. John propped his cane against the worktop and pulled at the ribbon. It came untangled in his fingers and he opened the packet. It wasn’t a nut, or a bean, but chocolate. He popped one into his mouth. Heady, heavy, thick chocolate that crunched and slid down his throat. He lowered his head and sniffed. The scent was overwhelming, and he needed more. He ate another. A warm feeling pooled deep inside his stomach. Another one, followed by a fourth, and the warm feeling rose. It rose up through his chest and spread through him like vines, twining and twisting until every part of him tingled. He turned, looking and searching. One word came to his lips: “Mary.”

Above, the floorboards creaked again. Upstairs. He repeated her name, and moved forward. It took him only a moment to reach the stairs. Gripping onto the balustrade, he shifted up the stairs, one at a time.

“John?” Her questioning call made him accelerate his pace. Reaching the top of the stairs, he headed down the corridor.

He found her in the bedroom, bent over the bed, her backside in the air as she folded the blankets. She was humming, the sound gentle. He stared at her and drank in her perfect form. Somehow, over the years of their marriage, he’d forgotten it. He’d dreamed of it so often in the rare moments of peace; the moments when the guns went quiet and the wounded only moaned and writhed and his hands were clean. He’d dreamed of her face, her sweet oval-shaped face, her blue eyes, the curves of her body that he had vowed never to forget.

He knocked once on the open door. She paused and looked up at him.

“John!” Her smile faded and she tilted her head as she saw the look on his face and saw him step forward. “Everything alright?”

He nodded and took another step. He was stood directly opposite her, and he did what he had failed to do for years; he kissed her. She moaned, rich and warm against him, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, hugging him close to her. He responded in kind, his arms around her waist and her hips. Her smile widened as one hand moved down his body to palm at his groin. His cock, heavy in his trousers, twitched at the sensation and he laughed. The sound was deep and he was once again lighter, the weight of years past crumbling away from him, from the both of them.

With tender words, he guided her to sit down on the bed. His hands touched her, feeling the curve of her jaw, his thumb drawing a line against the hollow of her cheek. He dropped to his knees, and felt the worn carpet rough underneath him. One by one, the buttons on her dress fell away under both of their fingers. The material of her dress was orange, faded from wear, the pattern of white roses grey, but her eyes were searing. They shone, blue and bright, with her smile. His hands felt her body, his palms curving over and underneath the swell of her breasts. She shivered; her breath was tight, almost fragile. John grinned and let his hands fall down to her thighs. Small circles he made with his fingers, massaging the warm skin. She breathed a sigh, her head tilting back. His eyes flicked up, watching her. Her chest rose and fell with each breath she took, her neck open to him, begging to be kissed. Straightening up, he obeyed the impulse. His mouth was warm on her neck as his fingers began to stroke her thighs, each touch gentle and new and welcomed. A laugh bubbled up from her throat.

“Just what do they – _oh_ – put in those beans?”

John tilted an eyebrow, sinking back down to his knees. “I don’t know – but it must be good.”

* * *

The first customer, the next morning, in the chocolate shop was not Martha as per usual but John Watson. Sherlock glanced up as the door opened. He swallowed a smirk when he noted the lack of a cane and the presence of a grin.

“How much do you want?” he asked.

“Well, let’s put it this way—” John bit at his lip, but it didn’t stop the widening of his grin. “How much have you got?”


	4. Control and Discipline

Theresa rummaged in her bag and nodded distractedly at her brother’s chuntering chatter as he ran down the long winding staircase that made up the entrance hall of their home.

“I want to go to the chocolate shop!” Max called down, pausing to lean over the rail. “Theresa, you promised I could have some hot chocolate there!”

She rolled her eyes and closed her bag, pulling it onto her shoulder.

“For your birthday Maxie,” Theresa reminded him, craning her neck up. Behind her brother, there was hung a portrait, a family portrait of a duke who had fought beside Wellington in battle. Her father had told her the story of the duke’s lost leg many a time. Her brother’s pout was a childish contrast to the grand battle scene behind him. Theresa smiled playfully up at her brother. “And your birthday isn’t for another three months, correct?”

Max grumbled under his breath and drew away from the stair rail. “Yes, Theresa.”

Hurrying down the rest of the steps, Max took her outstretched hand and allowed her to hurry them both down the entrance hall. The grandfather clock gave an imperial clang of its bell as they rushed towards the front door. The butler, stood waiting, opened the door with an easy ‘good morning’ to the both of them as they broke out into the cool morning air. Theresa let go of her brother’s hand as she hurried, a step at a time, down the shallow porch steps.

“Theresa!”

“Yes, Maxie?” Pausing, she turned. Max stood at the door. In his hand, he held a clear bag with a gold ribbon tied at the top. Theresa frowned and headed back up the steps. She took the bag from Max’s hands. Eight milk chocolate seashells. Each one was handcrafted and small in shape. The edge of them was curved in a series of small bumps. Each line engraved within them was perfectly measured.

Max peered at the bag. “Are those for me?”

“I don’t believe they are…” With her forefinger and thumb, she pulled at the ribbon. It slid easily away from the bag. She let it fall to the ground. Her fingers delved into the centre of the bag and plucked out one small seashell. Bringing it to her mouth, she pressed her teeth against the soft chocolate shell. It melted beautifully under the touch of her lips. She had longed for the seashells from the first moment she had seen them in the display, even if they did not hold a candle to the statues, the towers, the swirls and the colours one could find in that window. Now she tasted one, and found nutty nougat wrapped inside sweet milk chocolate. She smiled. A warm shiver rippled up against her back. Tasting them was so much better than admiring them.

A short, excited bark made her jump. She turned her head and saw the dog in question, small and round and fluffy, straining at its lead. It barked again, jumping up onto its hind legs. The street that led towards the village square was empty, save for the dog, and from behind the house that sat perpendicular to hers, Theresa saw a pale hand that tugged at the lead. A voice hissed at the dog, a plea in their tone.

“Snoopy!” Max rushed down the porch steps and ran towards the dog. Theresa hurried after him and, on rounding the corner towards the back of the house, she saw Martin. Frozen to the spot, his grip on the lead went slack and the dog practically bounced towards Max, barking as Max petted it.

“Snoopadoop!” Martin blurted out the name, though it seemed to be more of an excuse than any usual dog call. He shook his head and swallowed. His eyes fixated on the bag of seashells she still held in her right hand. “No, um – I’m sorry – Carolyn made me walk him – I didn’t want to, I’m not supposed to, it’s not part of my job but I just thought if I – left – _them_ –you’d… I’m sorry, I’m just really—”

She stepped forward and pressed her lips to his cheek, cupping the palm of her left hand against the base of his neck. His whole body appeared to stop. She leaned close towards his ear. His warmth seemed to envelop the both of them. She would’ve stayed there all day if she could.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For the seashells. They’re – much appreciated.”

She stole herself another kiss from his cheek before she straightened up. Martin, frozen, blinked once. Max bid the dog a goodbye with a wave before he followed Theresa to walk up the shallow hill towards the main square.

“ _Wouldyouliketohavecoffee?_ ”

Theresa bit at her lip. Her mother had always said it was better for something to happen late, than for it to never happen at all. Letting go of Max, she headed back down the path of the street and threw her arms around Martin’s neck. His cheeks, already tinged pink, bloomed red but his arms soon found themselves hugging her waist. Theresa bent her head and kissed him. It was brief, a promise of more things to come, but she was pleased to find that the feeling of his mouth on hers lived up to all of her fantasies.

“Oh God,” Martin said, his hands falling from her waist as he broke away. Theresa narrowed her eyes, and followed the direction of his look. Snoopadoop, distracted by the sight of passers-by, was scampering off into the distance and barking. “That dog, I’ll have to – Carolyn will kill me – sorry Theresa!”

Martin left her, running down the path and almost tripping over himself to catch up to the wayward animal. Theresa rolled her eyes. She looked down when she felt Max’s fingers grasp at her little finger.

“You kissed Martin,” he announced, his eyebrows knitted together into a perplexed frown. Theresa took his hand and began to walk them back towards the village.

Theresa grinned. “People often kiss other people that they like, Maxie.”

In the distance behind them, Martin’s frantic attempts to retrieve his employer’s pet continued on.

* * *

The breakfast room in the vicarage was a small white-coloured room, suited to fit one person comfortably and two people at a stretch. The breakfast table was thin and narrow, the dark wood old and knotted but cleaned well. Antique chairs were tucked either side of the table and it was there that Sally took breakfast with her husband. Breakfast, they made together. It was a simple breakfast that they ate, made up of toast, tea and bacon.

The typed pages, once white and pristine, were covered with inky black scrawls. Looped circles marked out certain words; sentences were picked out by harsh underlines. Notes filled the sides of the paper, all question marks and condescending tones. Her breakfast ignored, Sally turned the pages landscape in her hand and peered at one of the remarks that dotted the first page. She scoffed and threw down the edited sermon.

“Now he wants you to compare Satan to makers of chocolate.” She sipped her morning tea and shook her head, setting down her cup. “He could make his vendetta a little less subtle.”

Greg bit into his toast, shrugging. “He’s the Mayor, Sally.”

“And you’re the priest of this village!” Sally said hotly. Greg reached forward over the breakfast table. He took her hand in his, and his thumb stroked gently over the gold wrapped around her ring finger. It shone in the sunlight. Sally had always taken great pride in how clean she kept her wedding ring. She knew he loved her for that, and more. Sally quietened for a moment and smiled up at him. Holding his fingers, she brought his hand to her lips and kissed it.

“You should be able to have your say, Greg.” She spoke quietly. Wordlessly, he turned his palm towards her cheek and cupped it, briefly stroking his thumb along the line of her jaw. He gave a regretful sigh and drew away his hand.

“I’m sorry Sal. I am.” He drank his tea and shook his head. “But I can’t do anything. I can’t. Not after—”

Sally nodded. “I know. But perhaps – if I talked to him…?”

“Well, you can try if you like,” Greg replied, beginning to cut his bacon into strips. The frown in his features told Sally of his doubts. He carried the look of a defeated man; he had done so since Mycroft Holmes had begun his meddling. She looked back at the pages she’d discarded. Her husband’s words, overwhelmed by another man’s opinion. Sally swallowed, and gave a short nod of her head. Her decision was made.

* * *

When she entered, Mycroft Holmes was sat at his desk and leaned back in his chair. Anthea greeted her with warm words, but her employer’s greeting was cooler, crisper. His hands folded in front of him on the desk, he lazily lifted his gaze towards her when she stopped in front of his desk.

“Is he breaking any laws?” she asked fiercely. “C’mon. Tell me – is one chocolate shop hurting anyone?”

“He is causing people to break with Lent,” Mycroft replied evenly. He aimed a knowing look at Sally and arched an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t agree with that.”

Sally unfolded her arms, pressing her palms against the edge of the desk. She swallowed.

“If someone chooses to break Lent, that’s on their conscience.” She was not there to damn others, nor was her husband. “The point is that the church – my husband – isn’t there to push one person’s vendetta!”

Mycroft paused for a moment, considering her words. Finally, he sighed and stood up. “Considering the circumstances under which you and your husband moved here, I’m surprised at your being here.” Sally turned and watched him as he moved towards the door of his office, her brows furrowed into a glare. With ease, Mycroft opened the door and looked back to her. “Good afternoon, Mrs Lestrade.”

Chin tilted up, with his back straight, he cut an unyielding figure. Sally swallowed and lowered her gaze. She buried the heel of her shoe deep against the wooden floor and her hands clenched tightly. From the moment she had stepped into the office, she had carried a disadvantage. On one thing, he was right. They had moved to the village under such complicated circumstances, they had already sacrificed so much. Anger tightened within inside her chest. Clearing her throat, she threw her chin up and stormed from the office. The door shut behind her and she let out a heavy sigh.

Anthea, sat at her desk and her fingertips hovering against the keys of her typewriter, glanced up at the sound of the door. Sympathy crossed her features and she stood.

“I’m sorry about Mr Holmes.” Her eyes hovered over Sally for a moment, focusing on the closed door. “He’s been – he’s…”

She let the sentence trail away from her. Sally gave a small smile in silent thanks.

“It’s alright. Don’t feel the need to apologise for him.” She had experienced this feeling before. Too many times to count. Running her fingers through her hair and shaking her head, Sally headed down the stairs.

* * *

The river that ran along the edge of the village was a place of peace, its waters lapping lazily against the wooden dock. A steep hill led down to the bank of the river, where at the bank, there stood a single dock, long unused. At the top of the leafy hill, it was lined by a small copse of trees. Children often played underneath the old carcass of a felled tree, made so by a storm that elder residents of the village still discussed with hushed tones and knowing nods. Over the course of two days, the ancient peace had begun to fade. Discussion of a different kind had begun to take place. Suspicious glances were given to the boats that chose to moor at the dock. Parents tugged away at the arms of their children, murmuring unkind words.

Those same parents rushed past the window of the chocolate shop, and were paid little attention to by Sherlock, who kept his attentions on his display, laying out arranged plates of new chocolates among the rich dark silk that covered the window’s shelves.

“Maxie, slow down!”

Sherlock turned his head. Theresa, clinging to the hand of her little brother, laughed as he continued to storm down the street’s path. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock stepped towards the door of the chocolate shop and opened it.

“What is it?” he asked, calling after the siblings. Max screeched to a halt and turned towards Sherlock. A grin burst onto his features. He stamped his feet and swung his sister’s hand, giddy with excitement.

“Pirates, Mr. Holmes! Pirates!”


	5. The Moral Law

Max broke into a run across the dock, leaping onto the wooden bridge that led towards one of the boats. The bridge, made up of three flat planks, wobbled underneath the force of Max’s quick footsteps. Theresa gave chase after her brother and grabbed at his hand to haul him back but Max only giggled, enchanted as he was by the sight that was in front of him. Sherlock folded his hands behind his back as he walked down towards the river bank. Reaching the edge of the dock, he turned back and gazed over the crowd. The boats in question were ten in number and ramshackle at best. Corrugated roofs gave shelter to the wooden structures of the boats, stovepipe chimneys smoked dark grey wisps. Smaller bridges connected each of the boats in an irregular pathway. Fishing lines strung up multi-coloured flags which flapped again the wind, hanging low above people’s heads. Some of the Travellers had begun to set up steel drums at the base of the steep hill, lighting fires to warm themselves against the cool winter breeze. Dogs scampered and barked, moving easily across the decks of the houseboats and around the legs of their owners, panting for either affection or a treat or both. It was easy to see how a small child as impulsive as Max might have mistaken them for pirates.

“We’re sorry.” The voice caused him to turn his attention left. A male with slicked back hair and dark eyes that seemed to glitter harshly stood on the deck of one of the bigger boats. Sherlock heard Max give a gasp.

“I bet he’s the captain,” Max murmured, his voice soft with awe. Sat against the side of the boat, the man was dressed in a casual manner. Both his shirt and his waistcoat were loose against him. Attached to one of the belt loops of his jeans was a scarf, red and bedraggled from age. Perhaps a lucky charm of some sort. The man flicked a grin, his eyes darting over the three of them.

“Sincerely.”

Sherlock tilted his head a little and stepped forward. “What for?”

“Being here,” the man said with a sigh, and he reached into his back jeans pocket and brought out a single cigarette, followed by a lighter. He lit it carefully and took a long drag. Max’s eyes seemed to grow to the size of saucers as the man grinned wider.

“After all, we are the dregs of society. The abandoned remnants. Are we not?” The man spoke with an almost laconic tone. Clearly this was a well-rehearsed speech. Sherlock gave a shrug.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never encountered Travellers before.”

“Travellers?” the man said with a raise of an eyebrow. “Is that what they call us now? Awfully diplomatic.”

“Do you have any treasure?” Max asked breathlessly. The man let out a small chuckle and bent down to his right side to bring up a rust-stained bucket. Propping his foot against the lip of the boat’s hull, he rested the bucket on his knee to tilt it towards Max.

“I wouldn’t be a very good pirate captain if I didn’t. Go on. Take a look.”

Eagerly, Max peered inside. Variants of colour reflected off his pale face in shards as he grinned happily. The man watched Max with interest, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“12 shillings and you have your very own treasure.”

Theresa’s lips thinned and she pulled Max closer to her.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “We have to go.”

Max let out a protesting whine, but did not pull against her as she escorted him away off the dock. Sherlock began to follow on.

Behind him, he heard the opening of a door. Pausing, Sherlock turned on his heels to look back at the boat. The door to the houseboat’s cabin had been swung open. A small woman, with honey brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and brown irises, stepped out. Unlike the women of the village, her clothes were ill-fitting and repaired multiple times. Hand-me-downs. Her long, earthy green skirt brushed against the wood of the deck and her shirt, despite her efforts to disguise it, was quite obviously more suited to a man. Even with it tied at her stomach and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, it drowned her tiny frame. A little girl, blonde-haired and brown-eyed, followed her out. The girl fared a little better in clothing than the woman. Although old, they had clearly been brought just for her. Sherlock watched as the woman moved towards a pile of suitcases and spoke quietly to her daughter, nodding once. As one, they took a suitcase each and turned. The dark-eyed male, setting down his goods, turned and followed the path of the woman. He shut the door with a decisive clunk as she and her daughter headed back into the cabin.

“So what do you want?” the man asked, turning back. Sherlock blinked and coolly looked back to the man, whose grin still remained. The charm however, had disappeared. He took another drag of his cigarette. “Here to save us, are you?”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. “No.”

“Well then,” the man said lightly, moving away from the cabin door. He dropped his cigarette on the deck and carefully stubbed it out, grinding it into the wood of the deck with the heel of his boot. He glanced up, squinting in the sunlight. “It’s best that you get going.”

Sherlock stretched a polite smile over his lips and nodded once. “Of course.”

Wordlessly, he turned away and walked back up the hill. There was something about this place, and this group. It wasn’t that they were ‘river rats’ as more uncouth people might’ve termed them. (Tell the truth, he couldn’t care less about that.) It was the hidden gestures, the lowered eyes, the furtive glances, the whispers. The hunched shoulders. The only one of them to exude any kind of confidence was the man. The captain.

Sherlock doubted Max would ever know just how perceptive his description had been.

* * *

The village hall, found on the outskirts of the village, held two functions. The first function of its hallowed halls was to act as a venue for any fundraising event. Events such as those often differed; every event was more extravagant than the last until one had to question whether the raising of money for poor orphans necessarily called for a five-course sit down dinner. The second function of the hall was for the villagers to gather together and voice their opinions on the topic of the day. Opinions which, after the first hour or so, became so familiar, it would arguably have been better for one person to speak on behalf of the village. The latter function had become common since the arrival of the Travellers. As the crowd at the bank of the river grew, the meetings became more frequent. Indeed, the frequency of such meetings escalated so much that the council saw fit to send along a representative. A bearded man who preferred ill-fitting suits and freely perspired, he carried with him in his pocket a number of handkerchiefs. Every so often, particularly when he interacted with a member of the village, he would retrieve one of his handkerchiefs and dab lightly at his forehead. On the sixth inquiry as to why the Travellers could not be forced to be moved, the council man sighed shakily and folded his handkerchief thrice over between his fingers.

“From a legal standpoint—” In the face of indignant calls and shouts, he huffed and started over. “From a legal standpoint, the Travellers – the Travellers cannot be moved. The river is public land.”

The murmurings became groans.

“That old line again!” an elderly gentleman called from the back, slamming his walking stick into the floor. “Stuff and nonsense! I want to know what the church thinks of all this!”

For the first time that evening, a relative silence fell over the hall. All eyes swivelled in the direction of Father Lestrade, who stood at the back of the hall and wore a reluctant look. Clearing his throat and adjusting his sleeves, he shuffled forward.

“Just because they’re Travellers doesn’t – it doesn’t mean they should be rejected. By either God, the church or, or the village.”

The statement fell on deaf ears. Derisive scoffs, derogatory laughs and shaking heads were the response. It only quietened when Mycroft brushed himself down and stood up. Thus far, he had chosen not to attend any of the meetings. His assistant had attended in his place but had said little.

“The council is right. Legally, we are not able to force these people to leave,” Mycroft said. His tone was overly calm, overly even. In their hysteria, the villagers barely noticed. Their panic mellowed as Mycroft continued. “But we are well within our rights to make it clear that they are not welcome.”

* * *

They must have thought the pink was friendly. A technique, a gesture, designed to get others on side. Sherlock held the notice in his hands, reading the small-printed words tucked underneath the headline. _Boycott Immorality._ On the times he’d ventured outside the boundaries of the shop, he had seen the signs here and there, posted up in windows and against doors. The villagers had worn faces of not fear but contempt. Snobbery. Sherlock glanced upwards. His brother, stood in front of him, wore the same expression.

Holding the paper up with one hand, he clasped the top of the paper between his forefinger and thumb and he pulled easily at the paper to tear it into two. He dropped the torn pieces towards the floor and they fluttered downwards, settling against the toes of Mycroft’s shoes. Mycroft sniffed and gently kicked the abandoned pieces to one side. Watery spring sunlight shone through the glass partition of the door behind him, settling over the pink of the paper and making it seem almost a pale grey.

The kitchen door swung open with a creak. Mycroft’s eyebrows tilted upwards.

“Mrs Watson. You recently started work here?”

Mary, carrying a tray of triangular shaped chocolates, darkly rich in their colour, stopped behind the counter in front of the kitchen and set down the tray. “A week ago. When your movement started.” Her tone turned cool. “It’s difficult to find a job with an open-minded employer.”

“My apologies,” Mycroft replied drily. His attention fixed back onto his younger brother. “I’ll have Anthea send round another flyer – and I’ll expect it to see it hung in the window.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows tilted upwards in a faux look of surprise. “Oh, will you?”

“Yes,” Mycroft bit back, a momentary slip of the authority. Clearing his throat, he straightened up. He fixed Sherlock with an icy look. “Our father would want us to be united on this particular front.”

“Hm.” Sherlock held his brother’s gaze, but his mouth twitched with the force of a smile. One that was knowing; quite triumphant. “Mother wouldn’t approve though, would she?”

Mycroft’s expression darkened into a perturbed glower. Turning, he headed out of the shop. Sherlock set about scooping up the ripped scraps of the flyer and headed into the kitchen where he threw the pieces into a bin. Entering back into the shop, he caught the look on Mary’s face. Lips thinned, finger and thumb of her right hand gently rubbing together. The look, the countenance, of someone lost in thought. Sherlock sighed and moved over to the other counter, busying himself with the hot chocolate.

“Out with it then,” he said into the silence, “whatever you’ve got to ask, out with it.”

Mercifully, Mary did not hesitate. “That remark about your parents—” She tilted her head to the right, aiming a look at him, her eyes narrowing to form a curious frown. “What did it mean?”

The kettle clattered against the metal tray as he dropped it, small pools of hot brown liquid spluttering against the spout and dropping onto the tray’s surface. Rapidly, he grabbed at a napkin and cleaned the liquid off of the tray. He felt Mary’s gaze follow him as he silently ducked back into the kitchen.

* * *

The sun was warm through the cabin windows and she sat, one leg crossed over the other, among the blankets and sheets of the thin narrow bed. Running against the right side of the cabin, the mattress was soft underneath her. Beyond the cabin door, she heard the muffled voices of others, the occasional barks of the dogs and the creaking of wood as they made their ways from boat to boat. She held the book in her lap in one hand and read slowly from it.

“—dazzling plumage of birds, reddy-brown of foxes, dogs and satyrs, yellow stockings and crimson hoods of dwarfs; and the birch-girls in silver, and the beech-girls in fresh, transparent green…” A sound at her left caused her to look downwards, and she smiled. With her free hand, she curled her fingers around Roisin’s shoulders and brushed at her delicate blonde curls. Roisin yawned again and wriggled against her mother’s side.

“I’m tired, Mumma.” She wound her arms tight around her stomach. “And my tummy hurts.”

“Still?” Molly asked quietly, her fingers continuing to thread through Roisin’s hair. She always looked so small, her little girl. Roisin tilted up her head to look straight into her eyes and she nodded. Molly sighed and flipped the book shut, setting it to one side.

“Okay little one.” Molly stretched a smile onto her lips as she shifted off the bed to stand. “C’mon.”

Roisin grumbled as she was helped up from her position on the bed, but made no protest as Molly helped her into her coat. It was an ancient thing, a duffle coat made of coarse blue wool with mud stains from numerous falls and attempts to climb trees. The cabin door creaked open, and a long shadow fell over Roisin’s face. Molly’s fingers paused over the toggles of the coat. A long breath preceded her standing.

His greeting was a lopsided grin, the right corner of his mouth moving upwards, showing teeth.

“Everything okay here?”

“Roisin’s got a stomach ache,” she explained. “Thought it’d be best to go into the village. Find something to help.”

He was silent for a moment. His thumb brushed over his bottom lip briefly, gaze lowered, until he smiled fully and stepped to the side. Molly ducked as she passed through the cabin door, Roisin following her onto the deck of the boat. His gentle call of her name, both of their names, made her pause. She felt Roisin step closer towards her, reaching up until she could grab onto Molly’s little finger. Swallowing, Molly turned.

“Yes?”

His smile turned playful, light. “Have a good time.”

She nodded once. “Will do.” A spring breeze, the same wind that had brought them here, fluttered against her. She felt loose strands of her hair tangle against her face and she turned away, picking Roisin up underneath her armpits and settling her at her hip. She didn’t let go of her until they were at the top of the hill and at the edge of the village.

* * *

On her entrance, the bell at the top of the door rang out clear over the room. The bar was small, five tables lined across the right side of the room with four chairs grouped around each table. Each of them was covered with a thin square of red and white patterned fabric. Men with reddened noses and cheeks stood at the bar, drinks in hand and cigarettes hanging at the edges of their lips. Low yellow lights hanging from the ceiling illuminated the grey tendrils of stale smoke that thickened the air.

“We’re closed.” The firm, female, voice spoke as soon as the bell rang. The woman at the door didn’t flinch at this rejection, nor bite her lip or lower her gaze. Sat at a table by the window, Anthea quietly stirred the cup of coffee in front of her and eyed the scene unfolding before her.

“I just need a soda water.” The woman was petite, pale, polite, and naturally thin. She wore trousers, with a thin jacket worn over a white blouse. A thin frayed scarf, more suited to summer than winter or spring, was tied loosely around her neck. Her hair, long, was tied into a loose plait that trailed down her back.

Anthea shifted her attention towards Janette. Thickset with green eyes and a beaming smile, she had owned this café for forty years. She had made it into a place where a welcome was always given, greeting regulars with a joke and their favourite drink.

Janette stared at the woman stood at the door, her mouth thinned out and her brow creased. “We’re closed.”

The woman nodded and tried a polite smile. “Sorry for wasting your time. Excuse me.”

The bell rang as the woman opened the door and departed. Anthea turned her head. Outside the window, in the faint spring sunshine, a blonde-haired little girl sat on a low wall. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach and she swung her legs gently, the heels of her boots hitting the ancient stone. Her coat was grubby, though her clothes were clean. She beamed at people who passed but they all gave her a wide berth. The woman walked towards the little girl and crouched down in front of her, her mouth moving in an inaudible explanation.

Anthea turned her head away from the window and picked up her purse. Picking out a handful of coins, she set them on the table and stood.

“Thanks for the coffee Janette,” she said quickly, gathering up her purse and tucking it against her shoulder. Crisp spring air hit her lungs and her quick footsteps were clipped against the path. Seeing her approach, the woman stood.

“Roisin, off the wall,” she said briefly to the little girl before she looked to Anthea. “I’m sorry – she was just waiting for me—”

“She’s unwell, is she?” The woman paused, blinking at Anthea’s question. Anthea let her hand fall towards her purse, holding it to her side. She bit briefly at her bottom lip. “Try the chocolate shop. It’s just a few doors down, just off the main square. You’ll know it when you see it. They might help.”

The woman glanced behind her. At the top of the street, there was the distant sight of the sign, golden lettering that stood out over the grey buildings.

“Thanks – um, yes. Thank you.” The woman smiled down at the little girl, taking her hand. “Rosie, say thank you.”

The little girl stared up at Anthea. “Thank you, miss.”

“You’re welcome,” Anthea replied, scooping back her hair from her eyes and breathing out through her nose. “My pleasure.”

The two of them turned away and began the short walk towards the shop. Anthea watched them until she saw the door of the chocolate shop close behind them.

* * *

If Martha had been any sort of good Christian, she wouldn’t have let the chocolate shop become a part of her daily routine. Much like some of the villagers, she would’ve instead made a point of passing the shop every day in order to scornfully turn her nose up at it. Often when she sat on one of the bar stools and let the warm liquid fill her senses, the crook of her walking stick hung against the counter’s surface, she wiled away the time counting those same people.

“Only five today,” she said into the silence. Her cup clinked against its dish as she set it down. “A poor performance, wouldn’t you say so?”

Her tenant raised his eyebrows. His mouth twisted into the shape of a vaguely amused smile. “Obviously I’m not radical enough for them anymore,” he remarked, as he continued to clean the counter. Martha chuckled and took another sip of her hot chocolate.

Her smile faded when the door opened. A woman, holding the hand of a little girl, entered. They were as pale as each other, their clothes old and expressions curious. The little girl’s eyes, brown and wide, focused on Martha and she tilted her head. In her eyes there belonged a faint look of curiosity. Martha turned away and drank again from her cup.

The woman spoke. Her voice light, tentative. “My daughter – she’s got a stomach ache. I was told… that you might be able to help?”

Martha lifted her head to eye her tenant. For a moment, he said nothing and his amused smile was gone. His blue eyes shifted, clearly scanning the two arrivals.

“Yes,” he said slowly and his mouth broke into a grin. “Yes of course. Sit down, give me a moment.”

Stepping back from the counter, he darted inside the kitchen. The door swung in his wake. Martha focused on her hot chocolate, the footsteps of the two edging closer towards the counter. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman help her daughter onto the stool. The daughter’s stare again settled onto Martha. It was like she was drinking her in, as if she were some kind of animal in a zoo. Martha tampered down a shiver. She had never liked children.

The kitchen door opened, and Sherlock entered back into the shop. Martha turned her head to look at him. A small silver tin was in his hand, which, with a twist of his wrist, he opened and set down on the worktop in front of the little girl. The little girl broke her gaze from Martha and frowned up at Sherlock. A wordless question. In response, he reached into the tin and drew out a single leaf.

“From the coca tree,” he said by way of explanation, and pressed the leaf into the little girl’s palm. “Old remedy.”

Martha glanced downwards. The little girl began to hesitantly chew at the leaf. She no longer stared towards Martha but she seemed to stare into space, as if in thought. She dropped her hands into her lap, abandoning the leaf but still chewing gently. She swallowed.

“I like your stick.” She flicked her eyes back up to Martha.

“I like it too,” Martha said quietly. She wiped her mouth and put down her cup, reaching out to grab at her stick, and she held it against her side. She felt her lips twitch with a smile. “Helps me get around.”

“What’s your name?” Sherlock asked suddenly, drawing both the woman and her daughter’s attention. He turned and walked back around the counter, settling his palms on its edge and he leaned forwards a little. The woman’s mouth parted to speak, but still she hesitated.

“Molly,” she said eventually, and she smiled a too bright smile. Martha looked away. That look, the bright smile, was a look that ached with familiarity.

Nodding at the woman’s reply, Sherlock reached forward. Between his forefinger and thumb, he held the edge of the clay plate. A flick of his wrist set it going. It span around and around and that little white shape jumped out at Martha. The woman stared at the plate, then Sherlock. An unsure, uncomfortable look crossed her features but she steadied and straightened up. The bright smile returned.

“I don’t see anything.” Martha smiled a hidden smile at the confusion that lit up within her tenant’s eyes and face. It was a moment of confusion, nothing more, but amusing all the same. The woman glanced down towards her daughter.

“Feeling better?” she asked. Her daughter nodded and the woman helped her off the stool. Taking her hand, she began to steer her daughter from the shop.

“Wait.” There was no immediate urgency in Sherlock’s voice, his tone was almost curious, but the woman paused all the same. Martha watched her tenant, and her smile widened as she saw minute hesitation, buried within in his small smile. He suddenly turned towards his shelves and picked up a china bowl. The medium-sized bowl clinked against the counter’s glass, the makings of a hollow scraping sound as he offered it out to the woman. Grouped inside the bowl were small rounded chocolates. Dusted with cocoa, the round shell was rich and dark. Mouth-watering, tempting.

He gave a familiarly knowing smirk. “Your favourite.”

The woman’s gaze did not leave him as she let go of her daughter’s hand and moved forward. She stopped at the counter and leaned forward. Her gaze dropped towards the rounded chocolates. Her eyes moved over the bowl, taking it in, and she finally plucked out one of the smaller chocolates. Straightening up, she tasted the treat, popping it into her mouth and she chewed. Martha’s attention slid towards her tenant but he failed to notice her. Stood over her, he watched the woman with patient intent. Martha had seen it plenty of times before; the presentation of a chocolate to someone, their taste of it, the closing of the eyelids. The slow breath. The opening of the eyes. The surprise and relief. The joy.

The woman gently swallowed and looked towards Sherlock. She gave a single nod. “Hm. It tastes lovely.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. His puzzlement was not a surprise. Not the usual reaction.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Disbelief threaded faintly into his words.

The woman shook her head. A quiet, wordless devastation. She headed back towards her daughter, taking her hand.

“Thank you for your help,” she said over her shoulder, ushering her daughter from the shop. The door closed in her wake. Sherlock’s frown remained and his head turned as he watched them head quickly back down the street.

“Hm.” Martha cleared her throat. She tapped the side of her cup with her fingers. “Get me another of these, would you?”

Her tenant obeyed without retort, lost inside his head. In her years, she had seen that look on many men. Friends, relations. They’d all worn that look at specific times in their lives, in her life. It was a look that spoke of reflection, of decisions about to be made.

She spoke up when he presented her with the second cup. “Be careful of her, dear.”

“Why?”

Martha aimed a withering look at him as she stirred the hot chocolate in front of her. His harsh tone more than implied what he was accusing her of.

“She’s troubled,” she answered after a pause.

“How do you know?” he replied. The accusation did not leave him.

“Experience,” Martha said. She rubbed lightly at her thigh and sighed. Her voice dropped to a low murmur. “Fifty-six years of it.”


	6. Making Friends, Finding Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for implied/referenced domestic violence in this chapter.

The slow strum of the guitar came first. The sight of her came second. She was curled up on the deck of the boat and in her lap she held a guitar. It was small, the sides chipped from use, but the strings were new and well kept. Her fingers plucked and moved along the set of strings, her eyes half closed as she played. Each note rang out, high and low and somewhere in between. Roisin sat a short distance from her mother and played with a set of small dolls, engrossed in her game. The gangway onto the boat squeaked underneath the pressure of his footsteps. Her eyes opened and she lifted her head. Her fingers stilled against the guitar strings as he stepped onto the deck.

“Oh,” she said. Her smile faltered. “It’s you.”

Sherlock gave a nod. “I take it you weren’t expecting visitors.”

“It’s – not often that we get them, no,” she replied, her gaze following him as he settled down beside her and reached into his trouser pocket. She blinked at the dark red box that he bought out. The box was tied with a black coloured ribbon, and it was small in size, an innocent thing. She glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. He offered it out to her.

“Your favourite.” He felt the right corner of his mouth tilt up. “Call it an inkling.”

Her brown eyes shifted as she glanced over her shoulder. Her attention remained focused on the river bank as she spoke. “Does Jim know you’re here?”

Sherlock rolled the box over in his fingers. “Does it matter?”

He stilled when he saw her hand reach towards the box. She withdrew the box from his fingers and Sherlock watched her hold the box in her palm as she pulled at the ribbon. The material fluttered over her hand and she folded open the box’s lid, reaching inside. With her forefinger and thumb, she scooped up one of the treats. It was a pale contrast, the treat, to the box that held it; flower petals made of white chocolate that hid a centre of vanilla nougat. One of his sweeter, more elaborate creations.

She did not smile as she popped the confection into her mouth, but she breathed through her nose, her chest gently rising and falling with the action. She swallowed and folded the box closed. Settling the box into her lap, she carefully set about tying the ribbon. Sherlock shifted and sat up straighter.

“Well then?” With others, he never felt the need to ask the question. He could always see it in the way they changed. A smile less forced, a lighter tone in their words.

She waited until she had pressed the box into his palm to answer. When she did, her thin mouth rose with an amused smile. “Lovely. But no.”

He sighed and tilted his head back, staring up into the overcast sky. Against his silence, he heard her move, her brief soft sigh before she began to play. The song she chose was slower, something that after a while, made him open his eyes and look to her.

“I know that song.”

She continued to play. Roisin softly began to hum along with the tune. “Old Irish lullaby. Favourite of my mother’s.”

Underneath him, he felt the soft ripples of the river bob against the boat. Sighing, he gave a nod and he leant against the wall of the hull, listening to the familiar notes of the lullaby.

“What do you want?” There was a sharp edge to her eventual words, softly spoken as they were.

Sherlock shrugged and straightened up. “To be your friend, I suppose.”

“Why?” she replied. Her voice still carried that sharp edge which Sherlock now came to recognise as caution. She did not look at him but carried on playing. Sherlock found that he didn’t have an answer.

Footsteps on the dock caused her to look up. The footsteps continued and the arrival stepped onto the gangway and onto the dock. Sherlock tucked the chocolate box back into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Hello again,” said the arrival, tilting his head. His red scarf was still tied around the belt loop of his jeans and he had a half-finished cigarette tucked between his fingers. “Found something to sell yet?”

“I believe I have,” Sherlock answered evenly. Molly set her guitar to one side and stood. Smiling, she tucked loose strands of her hair back against her left ear.

“Jim. This is—”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said and he got to his feet. Jim nodded thoughtfully.

“Hm.” His dark eyes settled on the guitar, propped up against the side of the boat. He looked back to Sherlock. “You heard Molly play then? She’s good, isn’t she? Keep telling her she is.”

“You’re right to do so,” Sherlock replied. “Good afternoon.”

Folding his hands behind his back, he moved away from Molly, past Jim and climbed down the gangway onto the dock. Behind him, he heard scraps of mumbled conversation but it was when his name was called that he stopped. He was a little way down the dock, away from the boat, but he still saw the grin Jim gave.

“Feel free to visit, won’t you? Not often we get visitors,” Jim called down the dock. Sherlock glanced at the other boats. None of the Travellers looked up at Jim’s words.

Wordlessly, Sherlock gave a nod. Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he turned away and headed back up the hill towards the village.

* * *

Stood behind the counter, an apron wrapped around the waist of her faded yellow dress, Mary poured out two cups of hot chocolate. Her husband sat on the left sided stool, his elbows against the counter glass and his hands linked together.

“And you’re taking your medication, aren’t you?”

At the sound of her husband’s question, Mary glanced up at Martha. She, sat beside John, shrugged and idly spun the plate between them. She stared into the centre of it. Her expression went unchanged. “Sometimes.”

John cleared his throat soundly.

“Oh, don’t fuss,” Martha said; a short, blunt reply to his disapproval. Her fingers twitched over her neck scarf, adjusting it before she dropped her hand and settled it against her stick. Her fingers curled over the crook of it. Her dress, the hem of it draped over her knee, was a rich purple. Her once vibrantly red hair was faded, strands of lighter colour flecked throughout. Her purple cardigan was thickly knitted but she still shivered against the cold. Mary gently pushed one of the hot chocolates towards Martha. She gave a brief smile in return.

“Afternoon.” The call was barked at the three of them, given by a gentleman swooping into the shop, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock walked quickly across the shop floor towards the stairs. His shoulders were hunched up and his hands were delved deep inside the pockets of his coat. Martha sipped from her hot chocolate and turned her head to look at him.

“When are you going to put your next display?” she called. John sighed through his nose and glanced towards Mary. She leaned forward and covered his hands with her palm; a brief gesture, but it calmed him. Martha continued to speak to the thus far silent Sherlock. “You know dear, those things are the talk of the village.”

“How wonderful,” Sherlock snapped. He made a rapid ascent up the stairs, leaving silence in his wake. Martha’s eyebrows shot upwards and she turned in her seat towards the counter, setting down her cup.

“A bit more unsociable than usual,” she muttered. “Something’s wrong.”

Mary stared after the stairs. She brushed her fingers lightly against the material of her apron, a subconscious gesture. Her lips thinned and her brow sunk into a frown.

“I’ll go check on him,” she said. “Back in a minute.”

Moving away from the counter, Mary headed up the stairs. The stairs, made of steep stone, were narrow and formed a curved path up towards the upper flat. She stopped at the small landing at the top of the stairs, approaching the white wooden door that stood on the right-handed side of the landing. The door was left open. As she walked closer towards it, she saw Sherlock rid himself of his coat and hang it up on the back of one of the dining chairs. She cleared her throat as she stepped inside into the flat. The dining table and chairs was situated in the centre of the room, some small distance away from the kitchenette. An archway led into a single bedroom. Mary folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorjamb. Her employer turned his head, scanned her, but made no venture to greet her.

“Everything okay? You seem—”

“I went to see the Travellers.” He walked quickly through the archway and re-entered carrying a pristine white apron. He draped it over his head, tying the strings of the apron loosely behind his back. “Happy?”

She held his gaze. “Were they nice?”

“Perfectly.” Breaking their gaze, he headed towards the sink and turned on the taps. Water spurted and spluttered out of the tap and he ran his fingers underneath it. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Mary dropped her gaze, focusing on the old wooden floor of the flat. Her mouth twitched with an unwanted smile. “Alright.” With a sigh, she straightened up and reached out for the door handle, pulling the door shut. “See you in a minute.”

* * *

There were often a variety of reasons as to why someone became a regular visitor to one specific place. The reasons could be singular; perhaps they enjoyed the environment, but not necessarily the company. Such people could often be found tucked away in the corner of their preferred establishment, reading a book or broadsheet newspaper. The reasons could also be twofold; one could enjoy the environment and the company. Those patrons could be found in the middle of the action, drinking and laughing and, more often than not, mocking the quiet fellow in the corner. However, reasons—whether singular or twofold—could also, if one weren’t careful enough, turn into excuses.

Sherlock wandered onto the quiet deck of Molly’s boat. Dogs lay in the centre of the deck, sleeping and turned on their backs, soaking up sunshine which, for a brief moment, had broken through the clouds. Dolls were left scattered on the seat of a wooden chair. Sherlock stepped forward. The dolls were used, the clothes stained and crumpled. His mouth rose with a smile.

Leaving the dolls behind, he turned and headed towards the cabin door.

“Jim—” Her voice dropped away into a low murmur and her words were obscured. He felt his breathing slow as he reached up, his fist clenched, and he rapped rapidly on the door before he let the door swing open.

His eyes fell on the bed. Roisin slept among the white sheets. He lifted his attentions towards the end of the bed. Stood against the wall of the cabin was Molly. Jim stood opposite her, his hands in the pockets of his jeans and a grin in his features.

“I—” Sherlock’s brow creased into a small frown, “intruded.”

“No, no – it’s fine,” Molly replied. Her eyes flicked briefly between Roisin and Jim. Her lips stretched into a polite smile. “What did you want?”

He opened his mouth, but his mind was blank except for the sight in front of him. He swallowed and gave a minute shake of his head, stepping back.

“Nothing. Good afternoon.”

Jim nodded, but his attention did not leave Molly. “Afternoon.”

Sherlock remained numb for a moment. In the silence, Roisin yawned softly and Sherlock still stood at the door. Molly looked away from him, her brown eyes fixed on the wooden floor. For the first time, he felt the cool metal of the door handle bite at the flesh of his palm.

“Thank you.” Molly’s words were a knife in the silence, cutting it clean away, and it crumbled underneath the force of her polite smile. “For coming round. It was nice of you.”

Sherlock nodded. The numbness had formed into a static echo at the back of his head, a hollow thud against the base of his skull. His grip tightened against the handle as, slowly, he departed and closed the door behind him. He barely turned before he heard the short, sharp sound of a slap. Sherlock turned his head, staring out at the other boats. No-one looked up, nor spoke a word. Not at the first slap; not at the second. His numbness faded into another, harsher, feeling of reality. He swallowed and the taste was bitter on his tongue. He let his hand drop from the door and he moved away from the cabin. The deck creaked underneath his footsteps.

* * *

On his walk through the village, the spring air was unusually humid (for, despite thoughts and mutterings to the contrary, the sun remained). Coming to a stop at the top of the hill, he looked over the riverbank. The usual hustle and bustle of the boats had transformed into a weekend quiet. The stovepipe chimneys were no longer at work, and the steel drums were emptied, hollow. On the decks of the houseboats, the Travellers sat back in their chairs and soaked up the sunshine. A thin layer of muted conversation covered the sight. The church bells, ringing a solemn call for worship, grew distant as he walked down the hill towards the bank of the river. Roisin, he noticed, was sat on the dock, contained in a small huddle with other children. He continued down the dock. When he saw Molly, she was stood by a laundry line on the deck of her boat, wet clothes folded inside a wicker basket beside her. Her hair was tied back underneath a scarf of faded orange. She wore an open black shirt over her white vest. Her skirt was the same one as when he’d first met her; long, earth green, the hem brushing against the deck. Her feet were bare.

Another lullaby was on her lips, the words quiet on her tongue.

“Will ye go, lassie, go? And we’ll all go together to pick wild mountain thyme, all around the blooming heather—” She let the words fade into a hum as she worked. Silently, he climbed onto the gangway and stepped onto the boat. It was when he settled into the wooden chair that she glanced up. No mark was on her cheek.

“Hello.” She swallowed and dropped her gaze. She picked out one of the garments and unfolded it. Turning away, she hung it up on the laundry line. “Thought you’d be here yesterday.”

“Busy,” he replied. Molly continued her work. A quick, sudden bark caused Sherlock to look. One of the dogs, an Irish wolfhound, jogged over the gangway and jumped onto the deck. Sherlock held out a hand and the dog sniffed, curious, at his palm. It bowed its head and Sherlock dropped his hand to stroke at the dog’s grey fur.

“His name’s Midge,” Molly said and when Sherlock looked to her, he saw her give a brief smile. “One of Driscoll’s. Quiet – except when he sees a stranger.”

“He often comes to your boat then?”

“When he thinks there’s food to be had.” Molly left the laundry and took the dog by his collar. Her grip gentle, she steered the dog towards the gangway. “Go on, get. Back to your master.”

Another short bark and the dog was on his way. Molly turned back and resumed her chores. Her skirt swayed a little as she moved, reaching up on tiptoe to hang up the clothes.

“Where’s, um—?” He stopped short of saying his name. She gave another blank smile.

“Jim? He’s sleeping off last night.” She did not speak with any resentment, but neither did her words carry any kind of acceptance. Sherlock nodded once.

“Hm.”

“I know you wonder.” She paused, one hand rested against the line. She turned her head to face him, tucking her other hand against her hip.

“Wonder about what?” It was best to play dumb. People never wanted to speak to a busybody. (Unless, of course, they were willing to spread gossip, as the residents of this village had substantially proved.)

“It’s better,” Molly said, her voice low. Letting go, she stepped away from the laundry line to reach back into the basket. Sherlock lowered his features into a frown.

“Better?”

She did not reply but her gaze flicked towards the dock. A subconscious gesture, possibly often done. Sherlock followed the direction of her look and saw her reason. Roisin; still sat with the other children, still playing. Still laughing.

Sherlock sighed. _Better_.


	7. A Melancholy Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for implied/referenced domestic violence.

Sat on the stool in front of the counter, with his sister beside him, Max swung his legs and stared at the portion of dark chocolate cake in front of him. The plate on which it had been presented was made of glass, black glass. His mouth thinned with thought, and he glanced up.

“Mr Holmes, are you really Satan’s helper?”

Theresa tutted. “ _Maxie!_ ”

Sherlock continued to wipe down the surface of the glass counter. His mouth jerked upwards with a smile.

“I thought you didn’t believe in God, Max.”

“I don’t,” Max declared. “But the children at school say you are. And they say their parents say you are.”

“And guess what their parents attend every Sunday? Church,” Theresa said, with one eyebrow raised. She rubbed at the small of Max’s back. “Very little imagination.”

“Hm,” Sherlock muttered. He folded the cloth between his fingers and tucked it into the pocket of his apron. He had gone from being an atheist to a demon. It was a progression, of sorts. “Not hard to figure out who’s spreading that rumour.”

* * *

Anthea hurried down the wooden stairs of her cottage. It was only a small thing, the walls grey stone and the floorboards prone to creak, and she had to duck when she went through the kitchen door. Her mother had seen it once and had spent the rest of her visit quietly questioning her daughter’s life choices. Tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, Anthea paused at the bottom of the stairs and tugged a little at the hem of her suit jacket. Turning, she crouched down at the underside of the staircase. Florence, curled up in her bed, meowed and stretched her claws before she graciously flopped over onto her back. Her grey fur coat was mussed from sleep. Anthea reached for her shoes, tucked neatly beside the cat bed, and scratched softly at Florence’s belly.

“Have you seen this?”

Though it was not the intruder himself that was the cause of her shock, but indeed the sudden severity of his question, still Anthea jumped and promptly knocked her head on the underside of the staircase.

“Ow!” she hissed.

“Oh – are you hurt?” The severity of her employer’s tone dissipated as she rubbed at the back of her head. Carefully, she stepped back and straightened up.

“I’m fine,” she answered. Mycroft stood in the open doorway, with his back straight and his hands folded in front of him. With him, he carried a newspaper and his suitcase. His suit was sharply cut, grey, and his tie was black. Ever the Mayor. Anthea strode over to her sofa and sat down, sinking into the plush white cushions (her mother may have questioned her taste in locations to live, but she could never question Anthea on her taste for furnishings). She tilted her head up as she slipped on her shoes, directing a small smile towards Mycroft. “You wanted something, sir?”

For a moment, his gaze seemed transfixed on the floor. He blinked, gave a minute shake of his head, and looked up at her. “Yes,” he answered. He strode towards her and offered out the newspaper. “Have you seen this? The whole town will no doubt be talking about it in a few hours.”

“Yes sir,” Anthea answered though she struggled to hide her puzzlement. She took the newspaper from his hands and scanned the page. Her eyes soon found it; an advert, ringed in red. _Street performers and stall owners required for a chocolate festival to be held on Easter Sunday. Contact Sherlock Holmes on—_

“For Easter Sunday,” Mycroft muttered from above her. “First he goes gallivanting about with those Travellers and now…”

“He must be a wonderful chocolatier.”

“Pardon?” It was as if she’d denounced God. Anthea swallowed back a sigh and dropped the newspaper into her lap.

“I never see his shop empty sir – when it’s open.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes – yes. Unfortunately.” He breathed out a hard sigh and moved towards the coffee table. Putting down his briefcase, he easily clipped it open. He withdrew a sheaf of papers from it and turned back to her, offering them out.

“Deliver these to the vicarage, Anthea. Notes about his sermon.”

Anthea’s eyes skipped over the scratches of black ink that covered the paper. Without a word, she took the papers from her employer and flicked through them. If one were to calculate, the hurried words of her employer far overwhelmed the typed font. He’d even edited his own notes, scratching out comments to replace them with admonishments. She felt a rush of sympathy for Father Lestrade. Mycroft busied himself with the closing of his suitcase, his thumbs brushing easily over the number codes to lock it.

“Of course,” she said and she put the newspaper to one side and rose to her feet. “I’ll deliver them and then be in the office.”

“Good. Good morning, Anthea.”

Anthea nodded once. “Good morning, sir.”

Picking up his suitcase, Mycroft walked out of her cottage and shut the door behind him. From her bed, Florence gave a curious yowl. Anthea looked to her cat. She was now sat up in the bed with her blue eyes staring at her owner. Her tail swished back and forth.

“I know,” Anthea murmured and she looked back to the door. She glanced down at the notes in her hands. She flicked through the pages once more. The words _Satan_ , _Hell_ and _chocolate_ leaped out at her. Anthea shook her head and pressed her lips into a thin line. She let out a sigh. “What am I going to do with him?”

* * *

Sherlock jerked upright in the dark and tilted his head. He listened. The banging came again, hurried manic hits against glass. He shoved back the blankets and grabbed his dressing gown, throwing it onto his shoulders. He ran out of the flat and down the steep steps, his bare feet cold against stone. White moonlight lit up the dark of the shop floor. He peered and saw two figures behind the glass. The taller slammed their palm against the glass again. Sherlock jogged forwards and opened the door.

“I did it.” Molly was breathless, new and old tears streaked down her cheeks. She clutched Roisin to her side with one hand. Sleeves of tops and hems of skirts trailed out of the suitcase she carried in her other. A red mark covered the left side of Roisin’s face. Molly hiccupped a laugh. “I did it, I did it, I—”

He took Molly by her free arm and steered them inside. Molly giggled again but let Roisin go, stumbling back and shaking her head. Sherlock crouched down in front of Roisin.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “Roisin, look at me. You see the stairs? Go up; wait for your mum there.”

Roisin nodded and ran across the shop floor, up the stairs.

“He was drunk,” Molly whispered. There was a faint edge of laughter in her words. “He – he got so – he passed out – I tied his feet with his stupid rag so he couldn’t follow and… and—”

“It’s okay.” He spoke lowly, evenly. Molly twitched underneath his gaze, lowering her eyes. He stepped forward. She stepped back, shaking her head.

“No. Please – don’t.”

He struggled to keep his voice even. “I’m not going to do anything.”

“I know… I know, I just…” Molly murmured. She reached up, her fingers brushing back the strands of her hair. Even in the dark of the shop, the bruises and lacerations that peppered her forehead and temple were plain to see. She caught his eye, heard his lack of comment. And smiled. She dropped her hand back to her side. Her hair slid easily over the bruises.

“He turned on Roisin.”

Molly nodded. Her smile widened. Her voice shook. “And I protected her.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. Trapped in the old walls of the chocolate shop, the sound seemed to echo.

“It’s alright now.” He spoke into the silence and he stepped forward, reaching out towards the suitcase. She let him take it without argument. “Roisin’s upstairs – in my flat.”

“She’ll be wondering where I am,” Molly muttered. The amusement in her tone was soft, a symptom of her bewilderment. Sherlock nodded once and he turned, walking towards the stairs. Molly’s footsteps sounded behind him. When he felt her palm slide into his, he gave no word or question to it. Instead, he quietly led her up the stairs.

* * *

He gave them food, scraps of leftovers dumped in chipped china bowls. Despite offers to the contrary, the two of them ate it cold. He made a note to bring more food in, and washed up when they were finished.

“You can sleep in the bed,” he told them, “I’ll sleep in the spare.”

The spare was a camp bed, shoved away in one of the cupboards and forgotten by a previous tenant. Molly smiled down at Roisin. The red mark on her cheek was beginning to calm, but a small bruise would most likely form.

“Roisin?” she asked. “Ready for bed?”

Roisin gave a nod and took her last bite of the food. “Yes Mumma.”

Sherlock silently scooped up both of their bowls and turned towards the sink. The water spluttered from the tap and into the bowls. He washed both, the sounds of movement behind him. The scratches of wooden chair legs against the wooden floor; the steady footsteps away from him; the squeak of the old bed as bodies clambered into it.

“Mumma, can you tell me a story?”

“Tonight?” He felt his mouth twitch at the faint incredulity in Molly’s voice. The tap squeaked as he turned it off and as he put the bowls to one side to drain, he glanced over his shoulder. On top of the blankets, Molly was laid on her side. Roisin was burrowed underneath, laid on her stomach and the blankets pulled over her shoulders. Molly stroked her fingers over Roisin’s blonde hair.

Sherlock turned fully and leaned against the worktop, watching the scene before. Neither Molly nor Roisin noticed him.

“Which story do you want? The Princess and the pirates, or—”

“Something new,” Roisin answered and she turned her head to look up at her mother. “I want something new.”

Molly opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her brow sunk into a frown.

“There isn’t—”

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and stepped forward. “I know a story.”

Both Molly and Roisin looked towards him. He continued to walk forwards, stopping in the archway. Roisin rolled over onto her back and peered at him.

“What kind of story?”

“A good one,” Sherlock replied. “One that stretches back over generations, actually.”

“What’s it about?” Roisin asked. She carried the standard peaked curiosity of a child; narrowed, vaguely distrusting eyes and a downturned mouth.

“Well, it starts a century ago. When a man went on an expedition to Central America, and met the love of his life.” Sherlock walked forward and settled onto the edge of the bed, turning his body to look towards Roisin. He told the story without hesitation or confusion. He had listened to the story so many times, said in the exact same words he used. “She, however, was a wanderer. Brought up to never settle down; to travel from place to place, village to village, dispensing ancient recipes. Despite the warnings from his fellow Travellers, the man married the love of his life – and he took her on a ship, back to England. For a while, it seemed that the man had chosen well. He and his bride had a little girl, and it appeared that the three would live a good life together in England.”

The peaked curiosity had faded, transformed into fascination. Roisin clutched at the bedsheets as she watched and listened. Sherlock’s mouth tilted with a smile. The words that rolled around his tongue were so familiar to him, yet still felt strange; he’d never thought he would be the one to speak them.

“Fate had other plans for this little family. Winter arrived, and with it, a cold North wind. It wasn’t soon before the man discovered that his bride, and the little girl, had gone. Mother and daughter wandered, just as their ancestors had done, from village to village, town to town, country to country.” Sherlock lifted his eyes to look towards Molly. “But the little girl grew up. And she, like her father before her, fell in love. With the son of a Mayor of a small English village. Soon after they met, they married. And like her mother, she gave birth to children. Two boys, to be exact. But again, winter arrived – and the cold North wind called. The little girl, now a mother, could not choose between her family and the cold North wind. So she came up with a compromise. She would travel, just as her ancestors had done, for months on end and dispense recipes and help others – but she always came back. That was her promise. To always come back before the last sunset. And the little family was happy with this life – and as she got older, she passed on her stories.”

He spoke softer, slower now. Left longer pauses. This was a newer addition, a new thread. Roisin hung onto his every word.

“She passed on her recipes and remedies to her youngest boy, who dreamed of one day doing the same as his mother. Of carrying on the legacy. But when he came of age, his mother made him give one single promise: to come back before the last sunset.”

“Did he?” Roisin asked the question into a fragile silence. Molly’s hand settled against her daughter’s hair and she kissed at Roisin’s temple.

“It’s late, Roisin,” she whispered. “You need to sleep.”

Roisin yawned widely and snuggled further down into the bed. Her eyelids fell closed. “Alright Mumma.”

Molly held her closer, her arm winding around her shoulders and her free hand still gently stroking Roisin’s hair. Sherlock stood up and walked away from the bed towards the kitchenette.

“The boy was you.” Sherlock stopped and turned around. Molly stared at him. “The youngest boy.”

Sherlock breathed out a sigh. “Yes.”

“Oh. Then – did you?”

Her question was asked as innocently as Roisin’s but it cut all the deeper. His reply was short, rough.

“No.”

* * *

She sat at the counter and she wore a men’s shirt, the navy blue colour faded and the hem tucked into her trousers. Her head was down and her hair almost covered half of her face. Martha settled onto the stool stood beside her. She mumbled a polite hello. Martha eyed her briefly.

“Where’s your little girl?” she asked, reaching into her coat pocket and bringing out a tissue. The woman ( _Molly – that was it_ , Martha thought) cleared her throat. It was a small, thin sound. More of an attempt at a clearing of the throat.

“Upstairs. Asleep.” She lifted her head. Her hair covered almost one eye. “We had a – heavy night.”

“You know, I used to have long hair – right down to my waist it was,” Martha remarked, gesturing with her right hand at her body. She reached down and clutched at the crook of her walking stick. “Cut it off when he died.”

Molly’s brow creased. “When – who – died?”

“Frank, my husband. He was lovely when I met him. Met him at a dance, would you believe it. He wasn’t as handsome as some of the other lads there, but I made a beeline for him anyway. Spent the whole night dancing with just him. He proposed after six weeks. We married just shy of two months together. Whirlwind romance, it was. Could barely keep our hands off one another.” Martha’s lips wobbled with a smile. She coughed briefly, the sound harsh. She patted gently at her chest and continued. “We barely got to six months when he did it for the first time. He was upset about something – something someone said to him when he was down the pub. Happened like that most times I think. You forget most of it.”

Molly was silent as she listened. With her forefinger and middle finger, Martha traced patterns onto the glass surface of the counter.

“When he died, everyone said it was freedom.” Martha’s voice was low, a ruminating murmur. She gave a small shake of her head. “But it didn’t feel like that. Not for a long while.”

* * *

His head pounded dully. A familiar sensation. With a groan he rolled himself onto his side. He glanced down. Red, his red scarf, was tied around his ankles. He blinked and shifted against the mattress. He struggled to sit up and with one hand, he reached forward. He fiddled at the knot, his fingers clumsy and ungainly. The dull pounding in his head deepened. He rubbed sleepily at his eyes.

The cabin door slammed open. Boots kicked out at a whisky bottle and sent it skittering across the cabin floor. His rag finally came away from his ankles, and he blinked as he looked up. Driscoll stared down at him; a thickset man in both mind and body. Jim sat up and leaned forward, pressing the tips of his fingers together and resting his elbows against his thighs. He looked up at Driscoll, with his mouth curled into a sneer.

“What do you want?”

Driscoll replied by throwing a suitcase onto the bed.

“She’s gone. You know we only tolerated you because of her. Now clear off.” Driscoll’s order was brusque and rough and the last thing said before he left, the door slammed close behind him.


	8. The Possessive Impulse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for brief depictions of domestic violence.

“I’ve heard he’s taken in one of those awful river rats. Been there for three days now, she has.”

Gossip, in its varying forms, was useful. It allowed one to track the mood of the village, to follow someone’s story and its developments. Mycroft paused and glanced towards the two women. Widows of the war, their faces were lined, their clothes black, but their expressions were lightened with a familiar malicious curiosity. Mycroft had strived, over the years, to not let that look fall upon him. The woman who had spoken, the same height as her friend, raised an eyebrow and leaned towards her friend. Their whispering resumed, eyes flitting briefly towards him. Mycroft cleared his throat and continued to walk. He clutched the handle of his briefcase tightly. His jaw tightened. Turning his back, he walked towards the doors of the chocolate shop.

* * *

Molly held the piping bag firmly in her hands. Her tongue ran over her bottom lip as she slowly drew a spiral onto the dark chocolate rounds. With dryly spoken comments here and there, Sherlock had told her about how he’d first found the kitchen, abandoned and in disrepair. She warranted it had been a far cry from what he had made it into. From behind the door, she listened as she worked to Mary talking to Roisin. With her newly rounded stomach (“almost two months,” she had declared happily when Molly had asked) and her smile, Roisin had taken to the woman’s kindness with ease.

“Nearly done?”

Molly tilted her head up to look towards Sherlock. He stood opposite her, arranging the first batch of chocolates onto a tray. He had the sleeves of his shirt, darkly coloured, rolled up to his elbows and his apron tied around his waist. Like his kitchen, he cut a clean, organised figure.

“In a minute,” she replied. He nodded, but said nothing. He never overspent his words, not around her.

On her first night in that small flat, she’d woken early (she had been too restless for anything else). She’d spent so many years on the water. It felt strange to suddenly have two feet always on still ground. Roisin had mumbled as she’d picked up on the bed blankets, but had not stirred. One of the bed blankets, brown and patterned with orange, carried an old scent, of spices and cocoa, weaved into its material. She’d sighed as she’d wrapped it tight around her shoulders. She’d felt so heavy that morning; worn down. Without much thought, she’d padded down the stairs onto the empty shop floor, blue in that early light.

Hearing movement from the kitchen, she’d flinched. An automatic reaction. She’d turned and shuffled forward. The door creaked as she pushed it open, but he had looked up without a care in the world. His greeting smile told her he’d almost expected her appearance. She’d rubbed gently at her eyes, wiping them free of sleep and given him the barest form a smile—the best she could manage. And he’d talked to her. No questions why, no attempt at comfort. Just conversation. She’d barely seen the sun come up while talking to him.

Molly smiled down at her work. From that first morning, and those first lessons he’d given her, she’d come a long way in such a short space of time. For that, she was proud.

“How far along?” a stranger asked into the quiet. Mary answered them, but her tone was cool. The stranger’s offer of congratulations was equally icy. Molly paused, frowned, and set down the piping bag. She let the stranger’s voice roll around inside her head. Male, they held a sharp superiority in how they used their words. Opposite her, Sherlock sighed. Molly glanced to him.

“Who is that?”

“Mycroft. My brother.” Sherlock picked up the tray of chocolates. “The walking definition of the upper class.”

The door to the kitchen swung closed behind him. Through the door’s window, Molly saw Sherlock come to a stop at the counter. In front of him, she saw a sliver of the man Sherlock termed his brother. They did not look alike. His brother was a little fuller in build, and dressed smartly. He carried an air that definitely matched his speech.

“Care for one?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” his brother replied.

Amusement entered Sherlock’s voice and Molly saw him shrug. “Suit yourself. What did you want, Mycroft?”

“It’s been said that you’re harbouring one of the river gypsies in your shop,” Mycroft replied. Molly shrank back towards the kitchen wall. Her eyes fell closed. Gossip really did spread quickly through small villages. Before, she’d never given that much thought. She never stayed in one place long enough.

“Molly Hooper is staying with me, yes,” Sherlock replied evenly.

“For an intermediate amount of time I assume.”

“As long as she needs to,” Sherlock said shortly. “There’s no crime in it.”

“Hm.” A snide tone entered into Sherlock’s brother’s voice. “Can I at least ask your reason for letting her stay?”

Initially, there was silence. Molly held her breath, turning her head towards the door. From her position, she saw Sherlock’s stiffened posture; his body leaned slightly against the counter’s edge, his hands sinking down towards his side with clenched fists. She saw his brother’s squared shoulders and look of warning.

“Molly.” He called her name once, turning his head towards the kitchen door. She hesitated. There was malice in his voice, but it was not directed at her. Molly swallowed and stepped forward. Pressing her palm against the glass of the door, she pushed the kitchen door open. Both Sherlock and his brother watched her. Letting out a breath, she stopped in the doorway. She glanced towards the other counter in the shop. Her hand remained on the door handle as her eyes slid towards Sherlock. He beckoned her forward. Hesitantly, she walked forward into the shop, closer to Sherlock’s side.

“Molly, meet Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, meet Molly Hooper.”

Molly nodded once in greeting; Mycroft did not return the favour. She lowered her head, folding her hands in front of her.

She barely felt Sherlock’s fingers make their way into her hair; but she felt the gaze of his brother as her hair was pulled back, revealing the bruises that still peppered her forehead. They’d begun to fade into a mottled purple, but the fresh black and blue was still there, still a reminder.

“She’ll be staying for as long as she needs to,” Sherlock said, a steadfast echo of his declaration. He let his hands drop from her hair. Molly breathed out shakily and looked up towards Mycroft. An apologetic look slipped into his features, and he lowered his head in a single nod.

“My apologies, Miss Hooper. I believed—”

“I’ve heard what you’ve had to say already.” Molly spoke sharply and she turned, walking back into the kitchen. She only breathed when the kitchen door had swung shut.

“1.” She breathed the number, inaudible to anyone but her. Carefully, she stood back against the kitchen wall and folded her arms against her waist. Through the kitchen door, she heard the shop door close. “2, 3…”

The kitchen door soon opened, and Sherlock entered inside. She quietened and breathed hard through her nose. For a moment, she watched him as he picked up the piping bag she had abandoned and continued to ice the rounded chocolates. He was in profile to her, and his body was bent over the counter as he worked. The corners of his mouth were turned up. A lick of a smirk.

“Don’t do that again.” He stopped. His smirk faded. He straightened up, looking to her. She tried a smile, but it didn’t take. She worried at her bottom lip briefly. “Please.”

His eyes narrowed as he put the piping bag to one side. He moved forward, walking around the counter towards her. He came to a stop in front of her.

“Why?”

It was nearly worth a laugh. He took in two people, a mother and a child, without question but could not understand why she would ask this small thing of him.

“My wounds,” she explained softly, “are not there to prove your point.”

He considered her words with a nod. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Gently, he reached up and his palm cupped at her shoulder. Her breath hitched. She expected his grip to tighten, for fingerprints to be left there, tiny purple marks—

“I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

Her breath grew stronger and she nodded, letting her hands drop down towards her side. Silently, Sherlock leaned forward. He kissed her forehead. Short and brief, and his hand slid away from her shoulder. Molly’s mouth twitched with a smile.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

* * *

The end of March came quicker than she could’ve imagined. Days were spent in that clean kept kitchen as she learned. It soon appeared to Molly that he was giving her a project. It seemed to Molly that, in his mind, something to learn meant something to focus on. To the tell the truth, the attempts she made to understand him—to understand his contradictions—could have been considered a project of its own. When she’d first seen him standing the dock, first seen him look at her, he had looked at her as if she were a curiosity. A museum piece from a different age. With every visit, his look had changed. She transformed from a curiosity into a puzzle and for some moments, she’d been tempted. So tempted to tease, to make him dig deeper and inch further. But Jim had been a shadow, overwhelming everything, every word they’d exchanged. Jim made her dirt underneath his shoe, unworthy to be there or anywhere else. She could tolerate that. She had tolerated it because in the good moments, he was charming though now, she couldn’t think how. Then he’d turned on Roisin. Cracked the back of his hand across her cheek, drunk nasty words spat out from his tongue, and it had been like snapping out of a trance.

She’d felt so light. That night, when she was sobbing and laughing and her chest hurt with the force of it, she had felt as if she was floating up the hill towards the village; towards the shop with its sign that creaked in the breeze. No longer a puzzle, nor a curiosity, nor a piece of dirt under someone’s shoe but human. Shy, flawed, broken but never a concept.

* * *

Three slow knocks, and she turned around. Martha sat at her stool, and was watching as Mary poured out a cup of hot chocolate for her. Mary paused as she picked up the hot chocolate and handed it to Martha. Stood by a set of shelves, and holding bags of produce in her hands, Molly set the bags down. She dropped her hands back down to her side, but her eyes remained on the door. Dark eyes stared back at her, and a lopsided grin invited her to step forward. She remained where she was. He was leaned against the shop door’s frame, one arm pressed against the clean glass. He was unshaved. Mud on his clothes told her where he’d been sleeping. A suitcase was dumped by his feet.

“Is that him?” Mary asked gently. Martha, hearing the question, looked towards the door.

He tapped his fingers on the glass. “Molly,” he called. The surface charm of the call was muffled, distorted by the door. “Come here.”

“It must be,” Martha said. She turned her head and looked towards Molly. Her eyes settled on Molly’s forehead, bare of bruises now but with the way Martha glared back towards Jim, they could’ve been as fresh as they were when he’d put them there. Martha spoke again. “He wouldn’t be here otherwise. Would he?”

Molly didn’t break her gaze from Jim. Her mouth twitched with a bitter smile. “No, he wouldn’t.”

She moved away from the shelves and stepped towards the door. Jim’s smile grew as she opened the door by a crack.

“Hello,” he said, tilting his head. His charm was clear and sharp. “Finally found you.”

She held tight to the door with her left hand, nails scratched against its blue paint. The metal of the handle was cold on her palm. She bit into her bottom lip. Her gaze finally broke, dropping towards the stone steps. His boots were dirty, mud and leaves clung to the soles.

“I guess Roisin’s about here somewhere,” he said calmly. Molly sucked in a breath. Jim made a show of looking about for her. “Though I can’t quite see her – oh well. Guess I’ll have to wait here.”

“What for?”

Molly looked round. It was Mary’s crisp tone that had invaded Jim’s bravado and her look did not waver when Jim’s dark eyes swept towards her.

“Molly to collect her,” he answered simply, the answer as easy as breathing. “Can’t separate Molly from her little girl, can I?”

“I’m not – I’m not collecting her.” The words, though she expected them to, did not take her by surprise. Jim blinked. He stared at her. Molly’s grip on the door loosened. Her words grew firmer. “Roisin is staying here. You’re not hurting her anymore Jim.”

Jim said nothing. His surprise, a momentary blip in his bravado, mellowed into a hard look. Molly continued. There was only so much one could tolerate.

“I’m not going to let that happen.”

Wordlessly, Molly pushed the door closed. Jim backed away from the door, grabbing his suitcase as he turned away. Molly watched him leave. She breathed easier with every step he took further away from the shop. 

“Well, I think that deserves some hot chocolate,” Martha piped up cheerily. “Don’t you?”

* * *

Roisin stretched her arms up and Molly, sat cross-legged on the bed and already in her nightgown, pulled the pyjama shirt onto her daughter’s shoulders. Roisin wriggled as she fumbled with the buttons and stuck her tongue out when she noticed her mother giggle at her antics.

“You’re laughing again Mumma,” she said crossly. Another giggle escaped Molly, but on receiving her daughter’s glare, she reached forward and cupped Roisin’s cheeks.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she said and she kissed at Roisin’s forehead. She let go of Roisin and shifted back on the bed. “Do you want me to sing to you again tonight?”

Roisin climbed onto the bed and snuggled down into the blankets. She nodded.

“Mm, yes Mumma. Could you sing that old lullaby?”

Molly lay down beside her, and brushed her fingers over her blonde hair. She breathed deeply and cuddled Roisin close, curling around her. She began the song slowly.

“Oh the summertime is comin’, and the trees are sweetly blooming, where the wild mountain thyme grows around the blooming heather – will ye go, lassie, go?”

Roisin grew heavy in her arms as she drifted further into sleep. Downstairs, Molly heard the shop door close.

She paused. She should’ve felt calm at such a sound, should’ve told herself it was Sherlock returning. His returns were never quiet, however. He walked, muttered, checked the shop and the kitchen, and ran up the stairs. Molly held Roisin closer. Her voice held even and she continued to softly sing.

“And we’ll all go together, to pick wild mountain thyme, all around the blooming heather – will ye go, lassie, go? I will build my love a bower by yon pure crystal fountain… all around the blooming heather…” Slow footsteps on stone. Her heart hammered, the song fading from her lips. She leaned forward to clutch Roisin’s shoulder tight. Roisin stirred awake.

“Mumma?”

The footsteps paused.

“Get out of the bed,” Molly whispered. “Hide underneath it. Don’t come out until I tell you.”

Roisin flicked the blankets back and scrambled off the mattress. Molly followed her out of the bed, hurrying to hide Roisin from sight. She stood as the door opened. Wordlessly, Jim entered into the flat.

“Come here.” He spoke silkily, a familiar threatening calm. Her reason for obeying him was also familiar. Her fists clenched tight, she walked towards him. Her stomach felt hollow. She pressed her nails deeper into her palm. The wooden floor was rough against her bare feet and creaked. Jim stood before her, motionless, blank but for a grin on his lips and his scarf looped around his belt loop.

She came to a stop in front of him. Made herself breathe, once, twice. Her brown hair was loose over her shoulders, her neck and arms were exposed, her face was within reach of his hands and she made herself breathe.

“I’m not coming back. We’re over.” She stared up at dark eyes that burned back. “We are over.”

His thinned lips moved into a low hum. He reached forward with his right hand and sank his fingers into her hair. They curled into a fist and he pulled, tugged until the strands were tight on her scalp, forcing her to tilt her head back, making her wince. He advanced forward.

“It’s your own fault.” Still those calm tones. “Wouldn’t have to do this if you came back.”

His left hand moved towards her shoulder, his grip like iron. She cried out, a single sharp noise; she struggled against the heavy weight of his hand, pressing her down onto her knees. His palm suddenly cracked against her right cheek.

“Get yours and Roisin’s things,” he hissed. “And we’ll go.”

“I am _not going_ ,” Molly snapped.

His right hand sunk further into her hair. “I won’t say it again. Get your things, we’re going.”

Her jaw tightened. She glared up at him. Rapidly, she grabbed at his right hand and held his wrist as strongly as she could muster.

“Get off – me!”

Molly twisted her hand against his wrist, wrenching his right hand away from her hair, pushing him away. With a curse, he stumbled back, hitting the flat door. Free of his grip, Molly took the moment and shot to her feet. Her blood pumping, she barely saw where she was going. Her palms slammed against the worktop and she came to a stop. She whipped round. Jim was still against the door, groaning and cradling his wrist. Molly backed further down the worktop, her fingers brushing over abandoned cutlery and dirty dishes. With a grunt, Jim straightened up. His black-eyed gaze fell on her.

“You fucking—” He advanced forward, swiping at her with his left hand. She stumbled back. Her left hand gripped at something hard and metal. She picked it up and held it with both hands. Jim laughed harshly.

“What are you going to do with that?” His drawl was biting, taunting. Molly held the skillet higher.

“This.”

She lashed out with a single swing. The metal connected to his head with a hollow _clang_ , and Jim crumpled to the floor. Molly’s breath stopped for a short moment. Abandoning the skillet to the dining table, she knelt at Jim’s side. His breathing was shallow.

“Roisin.” Molly breathed the name. She got to her feet and hurried towards the foot of the bed, kneeling down in front of it. Fumbling with the edge of the blankets, she hauled them up and looked under the bed. Roisin was curled underneath it, her hands clamped tight over her ears and her eyes squeezed shut. Molly reached for her, sliding her hand onto Roisin’s right shoulder. Roisin’s eyes opened. Molly gave a nod and beckoned. Roisin slowly crawled out from underneath the bed.

Her eyes grew wide at the sight of Jim, sprawled unconscious by the dining table.

“Mumma?”

Molly wrapped her arms around Roisin’s shoulders and kissed her hair.

“I’m fine. I’m fine, Roisin.”

“Molly!” Sherlock’s call was a distant thing, called all the way down from the shop. Quick footsteps shot up the stone stairs. “Molly!”

Sherlock stopped at the threshold. His eyes found Jim’s unconscious body before they moved towards Molly and Roisin. He rushed forward and squatted down in front of them.

His gaze hardened, as he scanned her, his blue eyes picking up the inflamed red of her cheek. He held up a hand and lightly touched his fingers to her left cheek. For a moment, his look and voice softened.

“How badly did he hurt you?”

“He didn’t get Roisin,” Molly replied. Her eyes fluttered closed as she felt his thumb trace against the hollow of her left cheek. “That’s what matters.”

Sherlock nodded. His hand dropped from her face, and he glanced towards Jim.

“He won’t stay unconscious forever.” He smirked with sudden thought. “But I can think of a good place to put him.”

The next morning the village woke, one by one, to the sight of Jim—slumped and sleeping—by the village fountain.

* * *

Martha, when she came in for her daily hot chocolate, caught wind of the event and insisted on being told every detail. Molly found, as she relayed the night to Martha Hudson, that it was not a hunt for gossip that motivated her listening. Nor was her motive a morbid curiosity for the secret lives of ‘river rats’. She seemed to find some kind of closure in hearing how Molly had swiped and laid Jim to sleep.

“There’s one thing you can be certain of, dear,” Martha said brightly when the story was finished. She blew gently on her hot chocolate. “The worst is over. He won’t come looking for you again. He knows what you’re made of.”

Molly leaned over the counter and squeezed at Martha’s free hand.

“Thank you,” she murmured. Martha tutted.

“Oh, don’t say thank you. You did the work!” Martha turned, looking about the shop. “Now, where’s my tenant? I need to talk to him. Both of you, actually.”

On cue, Sherlock entered from the kitchen and wiped his hands on his apron. “What is it, Mrs Hudson?”

Martha took a tissue from her coat pocket and wiped at the corners of her mouth. “I’ve got a request to make. I want you to throw me a birthday party.”

Molly frowned, glancing towards Sherlock. He seemed amused by his landlady’s sudden announcement. Martha stirred her hot chocolate for a few moments, allowing her words to sink in. Molly caught Martha’s gaze. Her eyes twinkled as she brought her hot chocolate to her lips and sipped.

“I don’t usually take much stock in birthdays,” she explained, setting down her cup, “but this year – I thought I’d make a go of it. And I’d like you – the both of you actually – to organise it.”

“Then you won’t have any guests,” Sherlock said playfully. He moved towards the counter, standing opposite Martha. He raised an eyebrow. “My brother’s influence stretches far and wide.”

“Only as far as this village,” Martha retorted. “And who says they need to know who’s throwing it?”

Molly grew quiet as Sherlock and Martha’s conversation continued. The events of last night were still sharp and fresh. Her scalp still ached from Jim’s fingers sinking into it. Her cheek still throbbed from his slap. She shook her head. She had been through so much unhappiness, so many mornings of assessing damage. It was time for something different.


	9. A Sweet Taste

The reactions of the villagers when they woke up to find a delicately decorated invitation stuffed into their post boxes were varied to say the least. Mary informed her husband, and laughed as she told him he would finally have to dig out his suit. Theresa spent much of her morning attempting to explain to her brother that sometimes, adults had their own parties.

Greg sat at his breakfast table and read the invitation over. Sally sighed on noticing her husband’s eyes scan the invitation for a fifth time. She leaned towards him and ran her fingers over his hair, letting her palm come to rest at the base of his neck.

“Mycroft Holmes can’t stop you from attending a party.”

He nodded and as he looked to her, smiled. “You’re right. He can’t.”

* * *

At the Mayor’s office, Anthea unlocked the office door and pushed it open. Post lay scattered on the doormat. Anthea picked it up and flicked through the envelopes as she jogged up the stairs. Coming towards her desk, she paused. Tucked inside an opaque envelope was an invitation. The card was white, the decoration lilac, and the writing silver. Her mouth moved as she read the words in a whisper.

“To Mycroft Holmes… you are cordially invited to a party to celebrate the birthday of Martha Hudson, held at—” There was neither rhyme nor reason for Mycroft to be invited. If Sherlock Holmes had been the host of the party, she could almost think of it as a cruel joke. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip in thought, and read the invitation again. Downstairs, the office door opened. Anthea quickly stuffed the invitation back inside the envelope and slipped it onto the top of his post. He came upstairs in his usual way; silent, thinking about the day’s tasks ahead of him. Anthea turned and waited at her desk.

“Your post sir,” she said when he came to the top of the stairs. He nodded and held out his hand. She pressed the post into his open palm and he took it from her. Anthea watched as he glanced over the opaque envelope. He jerked to a stop. He turned on his heels and his fingers opened the envelope, sliding easily inside. Anthea held her breath.

“Why Martha Hudson would want me to attend, I’ve no idea.” He moved around Anthea towards her desk, where he bent down and threw the invitation into the bin. He walked back towards his office. Anthea tucked a strand of her hair back behind her ear and sat at her desk.

“Do you want me to reply sir?” she asked, pulling her chair towards her desk. She took up a piece of blank paper and fed it into her typewriter. “Tell them you’re too busy?”

“If you like,” Mycroft replied distractedly as he headed back into his office, the invitation already forgotten. Anthea paused. From her place at her desk, as always, she watched Mycroft sit at his antique writing desk. Soon enough, his fountain pen was tucked between his fingers and moving rapidly along paper. Anthea ducked down and plucked the invitation from the bin and carefully slipped it into her jacket pocket.

* * *

The destination of the party was the garden of Martha’s home and as Anthea approached, she heard conversation. Joyful threads which weaved in between bursts of laughter. She smoothed down the skirt of her evening dress, plainly coloured, and adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder. Her heeled shoes clicked against the cobbled pavement and she brushed her hands over her bun, smoothing back stray strands of her long hair.

Coming closer to the garden, Anthea pushed open the green door. She stepped into the garden and swept a look over the guests. Martha was not anywhere to be seen. She saw John Watson sat with one arm around the waist of Mary and another arm gesticulating as he talked; Theresa playfully fed Martin a portion of lamb. Glances were made towards Anthea as she entered, and a few brows furrowed in brief puzzlement, but nothing was said. Father Lestrade, sat next to his wife in the middle of the table, urged a portly gentleman sat opposite him to fetch a chair.

“No, no, I’ll fetch one,” a woman said brightly, sat at the top of the table. She wore a white top and a pink skirt patterned with geometric shapes. Anthea recognised her immediately. Her fortunes had changed somewhat since their last encounter. She carried a smile, instead of wearing one. As did her little girl, sat beside the woman in a newly bought party dress. The woman wiped at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and rose to her feet. “Just a minute.”

She darted inside the house, and soon returned with a wooden kitchen chair. She jogged down towards the bottom end of the table and set it down.

“Thank you,” Anthea said, sitting.

“It’s alright. Do you – know Martha?”

“I’ve encountered her,” Anthea replied with a smile. It was a half-truth. The closest she’d got to an encounter with Martha Hudson had been to overhear her complain to Mycroft about the cost of rent.  “I’m really here on behalf of my employer – he was too busy to attend.”

Anthea flicked open her purse and took out the invitation, and she pressed it into the woman’s palm.

“I won’t be staying long,” she added as the woman read.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the woman murmured. She gave a nod and tapped the invitation against her fingers. “Sherlock said that might happen.”

“I never asked your name,” Anthea said after a moment. “When we met that day, outside the café.”

The woman frowned, momentarily, but softened with recognition. She dropped her hands down to her sides and smiled. “Molly Hooper,” she said.

“Anthea Kerrison – but I prefer just Anthea.”

Molly nodded and went back to her seat. Anthea silently sat as the guests’ conversation continued, staring about the garden. It seemed transformed. Mycroft had commented in the past on its scruffy appearance, the apparently once neat nature of it eroded by Martha’s increasing age. For the dinner, a series of square tables formed into one long dining table, which groaned with food and drink. Candles in clear jars were dotted among the plates of food, and their yellow flames flickered with the breeze. White circles of lights hung on the garden walls, the old stone made gold by their reflection. The door to Martha’s home was pushed open and the guests looked up. Sherlock was dressed smarter than usual, his shirt white and his trousers dark and his curls neat. Martha entered the garden just behind him and refused his offer of his arm with a shake of her head. Sherlock gave a bow of his head and jogged down the steps into the garden. He took his place at the table beside Molly. Anthea watched Martha. The steps were stone but shallow. Martha traversed each one with a sigh and her walking stick gripped tight in her left hand. She wore a purple blouse and a black skirt with a shawl around her shoulders. Her greying hair was newly cut and coiffed. Martha sighed heavily as she sat and looked about the garden and the guests. Her usually pallid complexion was bright, with shining eyes and a happy smile.

“Nice,” she said, her usual harsh tone gentle. “Very lovely. Thank you all for coming. And don’t expect a speech; I’m no good at them.”

Anthea raised a smile. Martha reached forward and picked a bottle of red wine. Filling her glass, she raised the glass in a toast.

“To my birthday,” she said cheerfully. The sentiment echoed through the guests. Letting out a breath, Anthea raised her glass along with the rest.

* * *

With a growing smile, Sherlock watched the guests as they ate. Though they had been raucous and conversational at the beginning of the meal, they’d grown quiet as they ate. Pouring thick chocolate sauce onto generous portions of sweeter smelling lamb, cutting at portions of the succulent roast chicken, they fed themselves with smiles on their faces. His own smile grew wider when, towards the end of the meal, he rose to his feet and cleared his throat. Molly set down her cutlery, straightening up. She sipped at her wine. Sherlock glanced down, seeing Roisin slip her hand into hers and squeeze comfortingly.

“This is a speech then?” John joked. His smile turning wry, Sherlock shook his head.

“More of an announcement,” he replied, and he turned his head to address the guests. “Dessert is not here tonight.”

Puzzled murmurs crossed between the guests. Mary leaned towards her husband, whispering gently in his ear. Sherlock flicked his gaze towards Molly. She did not flinch as John looked to her, eyes briefly narrowed. A sliver of pride travelled through him and he resumed talking.

“Dessert, should anyone want it, will be on Molly’s boat.”

The murmurs stopped into silence.

“My idea,” Martha said suddenly. Molly smiled at the slight coolness in her tone. Martha took up her glass and sipped at it. “In case anyone wondered.”

Sherlock looked down. Roisin was still holding onto Molly’s hand. Finally, Molly squeezed it in return.

* * *

She plucked a gentle familiar air from the strings of her guitar. Slumped in a wooden chair with his feet propped up on the edge of a wooden crate, Driscoll hummed along with the tune. Anthea was sat on the deck of the boat, her hair down and her feet bare and her skin pinked from exertion. She picked and chewed lightly at a portion of rich chocolate cake held in her palm, with a contented smile on her lips as she listened. Sherlock stood at the bench table and tidied away the used plates into stacks. His palm brushed at any remaining crumbs, sliding them off the plates and into a small metal bin. Mary stood with John, her slight rounded belly between them as they swayed, with Mary’s arms locked around her husband’s waist. Father Lestrade was sat with his wife, the two of them curled up on the left side of the deck. His overcoat was draped over her shoulders, and she clung to him tight; the two of them both wore relaxed smiles, similar to Anthea’s.

Molly sat, with the guitar laid across her lap, and her long hair scooped around her left shoulder. The bruises that had once peppered her forehead had now faded. She pressed her bare feet into the deck of the boat as she began to play another air. Her shoes had long been discarded, kicked off to the right side of the deck as she’d danced. Some of the guests had already trailed off and had climbed up the hill towards the village, leaving congratulations and thanks in their way. The ones that had remained gently clapped at the end of each song.

“Mumma?”

Molly let her third song trail away, and looked up. The entry to the cabin was covered with a flat roof; a sleeping area for tired Travellers, seeking a home for the night. Roisin lay across it. Her head was lifted up and she glanced around the boats, searching. Molly brushed at her skirts and set down the guitar. She got to her feet. Walking across the deck, she climbed up the short ladder to the sleeping area. Sitting beside Roisin, she reached for a heavy blanket and unfolded it. She drew it over Roisin’s body and tapped at Roisin’s nose. Music filled the air again. Molly looked over to Driscoll, who was now holding the guitar. His rough fingers brushed over the strings.

“I’m done.” Molly turned her head downwards. Sherlock stood at the side of the cabin’s entry, head tilted up and his hands in his pockets. He withdrew one hand and offered it out to her. Molly chuckled. His eyebrows arched up, the offer still in his eyes. Leaving Roisin, Molly shifted forward close towards the ladder. The first rung creaked at the weight of her foot. He chuckled, stepped forward and offered out both his arms.

“Let me,” he said. She settled her hands on his shoulders. His hands held her hips and he pulled her forward, down off the entry and onto the wood of the deck. Both of them paused. Bodies close, breaths tangled. She gradually slid her hands down to his chest and tilted up her lowered gaze to see him. His right hand cupped over hers and they broke apart. Walking backward, he held her hand and he led her towards the centre of the deck. His left hand cupped at her waist and urged her closer. His arm wound around her waist as they swayed. Driscoll continued to play.

* * *

The song was one filled with notes that lingered, moments caught in between chords. Her hair moved as she stepped back and eased into a twirl, him holding her hand above her head, before he touched at her waist again and pulled her towards him. She laughed as her back softly hit against his chest. Her warmth spread over him. He bent his head. Softly, he nuzzled at the base of her neck. The scent of her filled him: a heady musk of firewood, lemons and silk, all accompanied by the bitter, sweet scent of unrefined cacao. She hummed underneath him and turned to face him. Her arm slipped around his waist. He followed her lead as they turned, and held her when she came back to him with her chest pressed close and her hand holding his.

To combat the night’s cold some of the Travellers had set up fires in oil drums. The gentle crackle of their flames lined the songs. As he swayed with Molly, Sherlock turned his head and looked over towards the hill top. He narrowed his eyes. Beyond the orange flames, an indistinguishable figure stood at the top of the hill. For a few moments they remained before they turned away.

“Sherlock – Molly…”

They ceased their dance, breaking apart. Sherlock turned and Martha smiled up at him as she stood.

“Thank you for this, dear.” She got to her feet. The grip she had on her walking stick shook. The brightness with which she had begun the evening had faded and her eyes were hooded as she sighed. “Thanks to the both of you. It’s been wonderful.”

“But exhausting,” Sherlock joked. Martha chuckled and adjusted her shawl.

“But exhausting,” she echoed. Molly moved forward and took hold of Martha’s free arm.

“At least let me help you off the boat,” she said warmly. Sherlock swallowed back a laugh. She had only known his landlady for a few weeks, and already knew her ways. Martha sighed again, heavier this time, and coughed.

“Fine, fine. But I don’t need anyone escorting me home,” she replied, always stubborn to a fault. Molly guided Martha onto the dock. Sherlock followed them and stood beside Molly, sliding his hands into his pockets. He watched as she watched, seeing Martha gradually climb up the hill. She paused at the crest, her walking stick shaking, and continued on towards the village.

“She’s a stubborn one, isn’t she?” Molly asked, amused. She strolled back to Sherlock and slipped her hand into his. Her expression shifted into a smaller, more private smile. She tugged at his hand, a silent invitation to follow. Sherlock answered with a step forward. Molly’s smile remained as she took him towards the end of the dock. A small boat was moored there, thick tarpaulin the cover of its wooden structure. Two edges of the tarpaulin, meeting at the front of the boat, made an opening. Molly pushed at the opening with her fingers and slipped inside. Sherlock climbed in after her and she leaned forward, working at the mooring. The rope came loose under her fingers and the boat gradually began to drift from the dock.

A wide wooden bench lined the boat in a U-shape, blankets and cushions covering it. Sherlock sat on the floor of the boat while Molly, with a sigh, shook out her hair and stretched herself across the bench to lie opposite him.

“They had a good time.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Hm?”

Her brown eyes twinkled and she propped her head up, tucking her hand into her hair. “The guests. You were wondering. Weren’t you?”

“A little,” he answered. “Wouldn’t want all that effort to go to waste.”

She hummed and stroked her fingers over her thigh. The material of her skirt shifted underneath her palm and fell back into place. “There must be a reason, for all that effort. I know you did it for Martha but something,”—her eyes flicked up, fixing on his—“something tells me you did it for them. The villagers.”

Sherlock chuckled. “No. I’ve got the approval I need. They don’t come into the equation.”

“I think they do,” she replied, her confession gentle. Not damnation, not an accusation. An observation. “In what way, I don’t know but – they mean something to you. Mary, John. Martha… Is it like that wherever you go?”

“No,” he said but the denial was half-hearted. He smiled. “How about you? You take your home wherever you go.”

“Mm-hm.” She shrugged. “I’ve got all the people I need with me. Roisin, for one.”

“And how does she like it? This travelling from place to place…”

Her smile faded into a slip of the mask. Her eyes dimmed and lowered.

“She used to like it,” she began. “When her nanna was alive. But then she died and Jim came along and it – it wasn’t really the same anymore. Jim was so – he was – he made…”

He studied her for a long moment. Caught snatches of her in his memory. Her skirt, draped over the side of the bench; her fingers tucked into her hair. Her tongue, flicking out at her cheek as she thought of an appropriate word. She burst out a laugh, strained and high, and shook her head.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this.”

Sherlock moved forward. She stilled as his hand touched at her head. She relaxed when he brushed his fingers through her hair. With his fingers, he followed the path down past her neck and around her shoulder. All the while, she watched him.

“He made me feel like I was broken.” Another confession, just as gentle. A pang hit his chest. A pang he’d felt when she’d first touched his hand, a plea for him (someone, anyone) to let her know that everything had been right, was going to be made right.

He caught her waist as she reached up and kissed him. Breaths tangling, mouths warm. She kissed him and the pang delved deeper, clawing away inside his chest as he cupped the back of her head and let his fingers tangle in the brown strands. The pang became a beat, over and over, as he wrapped his arm tighter around her hip and as she slid from the bench, her thighs hugging his waist. She gasped; it was a minor break before she sank her fingers into his hair and pulled and kissed again.

He withdrew the hand he had in her hair, trailing it down her back and around her side. His fingers fumbled with the knot tied at her side but soon it fell away and left the material of her top hanging by her sides. Everything seemed to slow. He began to savour her kisses instead of simply feel them; he memorised the warmth of her breath as she laughed against his ear before she kissed his neck. He watched as she scooted back from him and retrieved a blanket, fringed and old with wear, from the bench. She covered it over the bottom of the boat before she lay back on the blanket, her hair splayed out behind her. Sherlock crawled forward until he was knelt between her thighs, one hand by her head and the other coming to clutch the hem of her skirt. With a breath he pushed the skirt up and let it bunch at her waist.

Languidly, he traced his fingers against the heated skin of her inner thighs. She gave an encouraging moan. His chest hitched (the pang still there but fading), and he slipped a finger inside her, testing her wetness. She gasped a sigh and opened for him, her plea for more a breathless “yes”. He inserted a second finger, and touched her thumb against her clit. More gasps, more moans, more pleas. His breaths turned shallow as he scanned her and took in the image his imagination would never do justice to: her, on her back, her hair in tangles and her cheeks flushed despite the cold and her hands reaching up to clasp at his shoulder blades when he touched at her and kissed at her collarbone. Sweet, alluring. Something he was desperate to taste.

He shifted down, pressing lazy kisses to her stomach as he went, and with both hands easily slid her knickers down her pale, perfect legs. She kicked them off to the side and her hands found their way back to his hair when he finally dipped his tongue into her cunt and tasted. Her breaths became pants and she tugged and pulled at his curls. He licked deeper, drinking in the beauty of her ( _her_ , it was like an urgent call in his mind, something locked in with the pang, the beat, buried in his chest) and she arched, urging him closer.

He drew away from her with a smile. Her pants dissolved into a mellow whine but she failed to hide her grin when he crawled back towards her until he had both of his hands at either side of her head. Her hands fell to his hips, her left cradling his side and holding him close. Her right hand unbuckled his belt and flicked open the button and zip. His lips brushed over her temple as he freed himself. Her hands returned to his shoulders and with a low gasp, he guided himself into her.

She took as he took, their rhythm a perfect match. Her legs locked tight around his waist and her fingers clasped against his shoulder blades, tracing their shape as he moved against her and with every moan, she bestowed a kiss to him; to his shoulders, his collarbone, his neck, his cheek, and his lips. He cradled her head with one hand, and with the other, reached behind her. Her bra now loose around her body, she sat up and let it slide from her arms along with her top. She laid back and Sherlock bent his head to kiss at her breasts, brushing his thumb and fingers over the wet pink rounds as they both quickened their pace. She moaned and he knew.

He knew he could work all day, all night, all year; he could make the sweetest, richest chocolate. It would never be as enchanting to him as the sounds of her ecstasy, reverberating low against his ear.

* * *

“Do you ever feel like—” She chewed her lip and tucked her hair back behind her ear. They lay opposite one another, on their sides. Her left hand held his upper arm, running up and down his skin in thought. The action was gradual, unhurried. He tenderly squeezed her hip in response, to show her he listened, though it was needless. She knew him. She breathed through her nose and curled closer to him, her hands threading underneath her head. “Like you’ll have a home?”

He gave a shrug of his shoulder and moved his hand up to her waist.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it never lasts long.”

“Maybe this time it will.” She lay in front of him, bare except her skirt, and yet she smiled up at him. “Things… they can change.”

He considered her words with a nod, but his body stilled. Her smile had slipped from her. Her eyes narrowed, and she rolled onto her back, listening. Sherlock slipped his hand from her waist and sat up. The sounds were distant. Shouts, mangled together. Molly jumped to her feet and grabbed her clothing from the boat’s deck. She dressed rapidly, though her fingers shook and fumbled, and her breaths shook. She ducked out from under the tarpaulin. Sherlock hurriedly followed suit, buckling up his belt. The boat had come to a stop at a muddy bank, a long distance from the river’s dock. Sherlock stared up into the night sky. Over the tops of the trees, he saw thick tendrils of grey tinged with orange light. Smoke.

Molly jumped off the boat and onto the bank. Her bare feet flew across the muddy ground. Sherlock gave chase, his gaze flitting towards the dock as they ran through the trees, flying closer and closer towards the dock. His heart thrummed and his feet staggered to a stop.

* * *

Flames had engulfed three of the nine boats. Travellers, male and female, called for more water as they struggled to fight the blaze. Driscoll was among them. Anthea was beside him. Sherlock turned his head every which way and saw the sight of children, wrapped in blankets and coats, being urged away from the fire by their parents. Molly staggered down the dock. Brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes stared back at her. Her gaze tripped over red hair, over brown hair, black hair. Small bodies wrapped in blankets and coats, small coughing bodies trapped in the arms of their parents as they were hurried away.

“Roisin – Roisin?!” Molly panted and coughed against the smoke. She broke into a jog. Static entered her mind, a numb thud over and over. “Roisin! Rosie—”

She froze. A fourth boat was set alight, cast adrift from the dock and floating on the water. A boat that was a family heirloom, built by her father, a boat she’d grown up in, given birth in; its structure was already a hollow husk, overwhelmed by the flames. Her heart thrummed and her body began to shake. She felt as if she’d been hit by lightning.

“ _No!_ ” Cold water splashed over her and made her choke. Coughing, she surged forward through the river’s icy water. She had to get to her, she had to save her, she could still do it, she’d promised— “Roisin! Roisin—”

Another splash behind her.

“Molly!” Sherlock’s voice. “Molly, come back!” The waves of the river pushed her back, slowing her. She pushed forward. She could feel the heat of the flames on her face.

Sherlock caught at her waist and tugged her to his chest. The waves lapped at her chest and her chin. She kicked out as she was dragged back and hit out at his arm, struggling against him.

“Get away, get away!” He barked at her to stop, that it was too late. Molly shook her head and tried to swim forward. He didn’t understand—he didn’t _get it_. She could save her, she could find her. She could, she could. He continued to swim, dragging her back through the water. She gripped at his arm around her waist and tried to prise him off her but still he swam. Molly kicked out more.

“Roisin’s on that boat!” she screamed. “Let me go—”

A wave of heat flew over Molly as flames billowed out from the boat. People screamed as debris flew from the boat. It surrounded them in the water. Sherlock swam faster and Molly could do nothing but watch as the boat creaked and, in one fell swoop, collapsed in on itself. In a flash, memories flooded her.

Sherlock dragged them both out of the water and onto the riverbank. Molly clutched at mud and leaves and wept. Sherlock still held onto her and for a moment, she hated him for it.

“Mumma!”

Molly craned her neck up. “Roisin—” she breathed. Her daughter, with her blonde hair and brown eyes that seemed so terrified, stood with her hand in Mary’s. She broke free of Mary’s hold and ran towards her. Molly dragged Roisin down to her and squeezed her tight. She burst into fresh tears and kissed Roisin’s hair. Roisin trembled underneath her.

“I was so scared, Mumma – Mary found me…”

“Oh God – I thought – Oh God it had to be him, didn’t it? Of course it had to be him…” She gulped back her tears, clasping Roisin’s cheeks. “I’m never letting him hurt us, you know that? He’s never going to hurt us. Never again.”

She nodded and cuddled Roisin again. “I’m keeping you safe,” she whispered, closing her eyes, holding her daughter in relief.


	10. Feast's End

It was strange to sleep in his own bed, to eat alone. He woke early, and left the bedclothes unmade. He clambered into his clothes, clothes that were dry and still soaked with the scent of smoke. The memory of the river’s cold water was an itch on his skin. A knock on the door urged him downstairs. John waited at the front door, an overcoat over a shirt and trousers with a medical bag in his hands and a sober appearance in his features.

He didn’t waste time when Sherlock opened the door.

“There’s something you need to see.”

John led Sherlock down the street towards Martha’s home. The front door, he allowed Sherlock to open. Sherlock paused and stood in the doorway. Medicine bottles were scattered haphazardly on a side table beside her chair. Her pale complexion was accompanied by a serene look. Her eyes were glassy.

“This is normally the day for our appointment,” John explained and something in his voice shook. Sherlock turned his head back to look at him. John sighed and shook his head. “Found her like this. Kept telling her to take her medication.”

“The mortician?” Sherlock asked numbly.

“On their way.” John cleared his throat. It was a strained sound, a strained gesture. “Funeral arrangements – they’ve been made. It should be in a few days, when Easter’s over and done with.”

Sherlock turned and made his way out of the house. He wandered back up the road, his path more carved by memory than thought. He felt a wind whip around him as he walked, a morning wind that came from the east. Sherlock stopped at the door. In front of the unlocked door, which swayed and creaked a little against the wind, she stood. Her hands fiddled with her loose hair and she never allowed her gaze to settle on one spot. She was wearing borrowed clothes now; a man’s shirt, old trousers and a bulky coat two sizes too big for her.

Her anxiousness slipped away as he came nearer. Her eyes found his and she dropped her hands to her sides. Sherlock moved forward and hugged her at her waist and nuzzled at her hair. She was soft, warm and so giving. It was no question for her to lock her arms around his shoulders and hug him back.

“She’s gone,” he said, voice thick. There was no need to elaborate, to explain. She would’ve seen the path he’d trod. It was the same path Mrs Hudson had treaded every day up to the shop.

Molly hugged him tighter. With a quiet encouragement, she steered him into the shop. They sat down at the counter. She rested her right hand on her knee. Her left hand gently tapped a rhythm onto the glass of the counter.

“Jim was caught. Trying to leave town, after the fire. Seems there’s evidence which puts him at the local garage. He used their fuel to start it, you see.” She stuck to facts and truths, and he knew exactly why. Her tapping ceased and she spread her palm out over the glass. She breathed and gave a smile that was blank and more for show than anything else. “More than likely he’ll be sent to jail.”

“I know why you’re here,” Sherlock murmured and he glanced towards her, scanning her. Her expression was briefly pained but that faded. She sighed heavily as she slipped off the stool and onto her feet.

“Some of us are going to stay behind – to oversee Jim’s trial, and repair the boats. We all want to see him locked up.” She hesitated at his side and pressed her lips into a thin line. In his periphery vision, he saw how she tucked her hair back and swallowed, rocking back on her heels. “Sherlock—”

“Don’t.” He turned his head to face her. The smile he gave her was limp, a half-hearted comfort. The best he could manage. Still she moved towards him and her hand wrapped around his shoulders. She pressed her forehead against his. His smile widened into something wry, something knowing. (A natural reaction.) He cupped gently at her cheek. She slid away from his touch as she raised her head and pressed a kiss to his hair.

“Molly,” he said stiffly. He swallowed and tried again. “Molly, there’s something I need to tell you. I saw him. Before the fire began. I didn’t realise—”

She straightened up and let her arm fall from his shoulder. She shrugged.

“That hardly matters now.” She bent forward again and held his jaw as she kissed him; it was a short, light burst of forgiveness which lingered. “I’ll go and get my things – then I’ll be – I’ll be off. Goodbye, Sherlock.”

He was already in the kitchen by the time she came back downstairs, her suitcase in her hand. Looking through the window of the kitchen door, he saw the shop door close in her wake. Sherlock continued to work.

* * *

The north wind of the morning was bitter and remained into the afternoon. It took sharp bites of his skin as he made his way out of the village and down the hill. The river was calm. Debris, charred leftovers of the night, still floated on the waves. Sherlock flipped up the collar of his jacket and shoved his hands into his pockets. Sherlock turned his head down the river. A distant white dot bobbed by the river’s bank, undamaged. He shook his head and carried on to the end of the dock. Moored there was one of the burned boats. It took him a moment to register it was Molly’s. A lone man stood on the boat. It had not been completely swallowed up by the flames. The hull and the deck were scorched but not fully burned. The cabin had taken the brunt of the fire, its structure collapsed in on itself and the possessions within were gone, incinerated. The man stood on the deck was a thickset man with natural strength and a scarf wrapped around his chin that covered his mouth and nose. He worked with determination, clearing the collapsed cabin. On his hands, the man wore a pair of thick black gloves. Sherlock crouched down and stroked at the crown of a familiar grey-haired Irish wolfhound.

“Molly came to see me,” he said. The man grunted in reply.

“Of course she would, she’s fond of you,” he replied, stepping out of the cabin and tugging down the scarf. Sherlock noticed that the man had the beginnings of a beard. The man stuck out a hand. “Driscoll.”

“I noticed,” Sherlock said dryly, with a flick of a smile. Midge growled happily as Sherlock began to scratch at his neck. Sherlock sobered. “Has she gone?”

“Left this morning, when she got back from the village, along with a couple of others. We’re gonna follow on once these boats are repaired.” Driscoll peered at him. “Did ye have something to say to her?”

“No. Had a gift to give, actually.” Sherlock reached back into his pocket and brought out a box. It was only small, black and rectangular and tied with a thin red ribbon. Sherlock swallowed a laugh when Driscoll paused and took it from him. Driscoll’s brow dropped into a frown as he flipped the box between his fingers.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Chocolate,” Sherlock answered. “Her favourite. She’ll know.”

“Hm. I’ll make sure she gets it.” Driscoll pocketed the box and moved back towards the cabin. Sherlock stood and turned to leave. He found himself hesitating, and he looked back.

“You’re repairing her boat for her.”

Driscoll nodded. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Why?”

Driscoll shrugged. Confusion flashed through his face. “That’s what we do,” he explained finally and he tugged his scarf back over his mouth and nose.

Sherlock remained still for a moment. He tried a smile, but it didn’t take. He looked back down the east side of the river. The white dot of the boat was still there. The pang in his chest bloomed. For a moment, he’d lain beside her and she’d asked him about home. Then her home had been stripped from her in one fell swoop.

The afternoon was deepening into mixed hues of white, orange and faint pink. The onset of sunset. Sherlock sighed and ruffled at his hair. The sounds of Driscoll’s work accompanied his journey all the way up the hill.

* * *

The church bells rang out for Good Friday, and the congregation filed into the church. Mycroft was stood at the door, and greeted them all one by one with a nod of his head. At the same time, Mary struggled with the lock of the shop door. Sherlock had looked after it well, cleaned it and oiled it, but its age made it stubborn. With a sharp flick of her wrist that made her hiss and swear under her breath, the stuck key moved and the lock clicked. Mary pushed the door open and walked across the shop floor into the kitchen. She briefly noted that every surface had been polished and cleaned. Picking up her apron from a hook on the left side wall, Mary tied it around her waist and headed back into the empty shop.

“Sherlock?” She headed towards the stairs, giving a laugh. “Are you still asleep? We’ve got to make a start on the produce for the festival—”

“Go home, Mary.” The command was faint, hidden behind the flat’s closed door, but it was stubborn.

Her laugh died. Mary’s hand settled on the banister and she rapidly walked up the stone staircase. She opened the flat door. She stopped in the doorway, her hand clasped on the door’s handle. A large travelling bag was laid upon the bed. Sherlock made himself busy, folding his clothes into the bag. The bed was made and the kitchenette was cleaned. He’d had little in the way of personal possessions dotted around the flat, but the shelves were bare of them.

Mary watched him, aghast. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving. I’ll not be missed – certainly not by my brother. In fact, I’m certain he’ll be glad to hear of my departure—”

“Is this to do with Molly?” Mary asked softly and Sherlock paused. His bravado was nothing, and his eyes dimmed of any humour. He bowed his head and swallowed thickly. His thumbs ran over the material of the shirt in his hands.

“I never stay long.” He shoved the shirt into the bag and he snapped it shut. “Go home.”


	11. Ebbing and Flowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end! Thank you so much for reading and I really hope you've enjoyed my story - comments, kudos and bookmarks are appreciated as always!

“Easter Sunday has come to us, at long last. This should not however be a time of celebration, but should be considered to be a time of rebirth, a time to—”

“No.” Mycroft, stood by his office window, shook his head. He stared out at the street and sipped at his glass of water, his other hand tucked inside his trouser pocket. “You’re spending the word ‘rebirth’.”

Father Lestrade sighed. Mycroft turned his body to look to the vicar, who rubbed tiredly at his temple. “It’s – it’s been a long day Mycroft.”

Mycroft gave a nod, considering Father Lestrade’s words. He sipped again at his water and turned to look out of the window. “Go again.”

A growl slipped into the vicar’s sigh, but the drone of his voice soon refilled the office. That was one good quality he possessed: he at least projected his voice. The last vicar, God rest his soul, had been somewhat on the quiet side when it had come to public speaking.

“Easter Sunday has come to us, at long last—”

“Do put _some_ brightness into it,” Mycroft drawled. He finally moved away from the window and towards his desk, refilling his glass. “This is Easter Sunday, Father.”

The papers of the sermon rattled in Father Lestrade’s hands and he straightened up, squaring his shoulders. “Mycroft, I’ve got a lot to do – there’s Martha Hudson’s funeral coming up, and a lot of other things beside—”

“Easter Sunday is not important to you then?”

“No, it’s very important but I can’t spend the live long day rehearsing—”

“Very well.” Mycroft sighed sharply and set his glass on the table. He held out his hand. “Give the papers to me. Anthea will bring you the edits in the morning.”

A knock on the office door made Father Lestrade turn. Anthea stood in the doorway. Her expression was sombre, and her hands clutched at a thick brown envelope. Mycroft tugged the papers from Father Lestrade’s hands and sat at his desk. He looked up briefly, noticed Father Lestrade still standing opposite him. He gave a dismissive wave. Father Lestrade departed, murmuring a kind goodbye to Anthea on his way.

“Goodbye Father,” Anthea replied quickly, turning her head. Her ponytail shifted with the sharp movement, strands flipping onto her shoulder. Mycroft dropped his eyes towards the sermon. He heard Anthea clear her throat as she approached his desk. His secretary’s skirt was a dusted blue that invaded his peripheral vision as she came to stand beside him.

“Sir. This came for you this afternoon, while you were out.” He sat up in his chair and Anthea offered the envelope out to him. Thick in width, A4 in size, it was heavy in his palms. The address was printed, and an ink stamp spelled out the words _Express Delivery_. Mycroft turned it over and opened the envelope. The papers slid easily out from the brown paper, and Mycroft leaned forward as he settled them against the desk’s antique surface. He slowly turned the pages. Words jumped out at him, all of them printed in neat black ink until finally, he stopped at the last page. A signature was already on the first dotted line. Slanted. Feminine. Important. The handwriting of a social climber. Below it was another dotted line, blank and waiting.

“No-one will think less of you, sir.” Mycroft continued to stare at the papers. Anthea swallowed and he heard the sound of her hands, brushing down her skirt. “If you… if you admit that she isn’t coming back.”

Anthea’s tone was straightforward, matter-of-fact, but when Mycroft gained the courage to turn his head up and look at her, her smile was sad. Tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, she—as always—gave a single nod, said goodnight and left. The old staircase creaked in her wake.

* * *

Anthea reached into her handbag and brought out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Receiving the envelope, and seeing Mycroft stare blankly at those papers, had thrown everything into a far too harsh reality. For months, he’d held onto his wife’s trip through France and Italy as a veil, a way to bolster and cement his reputation as the wealthy Mayor with a kind wife at his side. Against her own judgement, her own instinct, she’d begun to see him through that veil, that _reputation_. It had made it all so much easier. Then she’d watched him drink in the sight of the papers, the sight of his wife’s signature on a dotted line, and in an instant his perception of his reputation crumbled.

Anthea looked up at the sound of feet running quickly over gravel. She stopped. Skirts flying and cheeks pinked, Mary sprinted towards her.

“Anthea!” she cried, skidding to a halt. Anthea saw a ghost of a smile (of an idea) in her face. “Anthea, I _really_ need your help.”

* * *

Sherlock retrieved his keys from the pocket of his leather jacket as he shut the flat door. Sighing, he locked the door and hitched his travelling bag onto his shoulder. He ruffled at his curls with one hand and sank his other into his jacket pocket. The railway was out of the boundaries of the village, a one-platform stop with an elderly guard who slept most of his way through his job. When he’d first stepped onto that platform, and seen the village from the road, he’d not thought much of it. Sherlock jogged down the steps. Travelling had made him forget how it had felt to live there, in the village in which he’d been raised. Stepping into the village had not felt like a homecoming. No-one had recognised him. It had not felt like sinking into something familiar. (Not a surprise, on reflection. He’d changed much from the boy that had left all those years ago.) Nor had it felt like the first step into something new. It had felt average. He stepped onto the shop floor and set the keys down on the counter with a clink. Coming here had been nothing more than another repeat in the pattern.

Sherlock jerked to a halt.

Laughter came from the kitchen.

He turned and walked towards the noise. He set down his bag onto the floor as he went. Through the glass, Mary laughed as she instructed John how to properly cut chocolate. Anthea wore an apron and painted golden patterns onto a chocolate cake. Stood in a line were Max, Theresa, and Martin. They all stirred bowls of chocolate mix. Others were there too, also making a hash of the art of chocolate making. Sherlock pushed open the door. Mary noticed him first, and hurried over to him. She stopped in front of him, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean we can’t have an Easter display,” she declared proudly. She grinned and it was a sickeningly triumphant look. Sherlock stared around the people within his kitchen, all of them cooking and laughing and talking. Max mostly chattered about himself and wonderful he was doing.

The pang in Sherlock’s chest still lingered, but it had lightened with a realisation. A knowledge that, when it came to him, seemed rather obvious. It was not the village that made people. It was very much the other way round. He eyed Mary and removed his leather jacket.

“Try not to look so damn pleased with yourself, would you?” he said, walking forward and he reached for his apron, still hanging on the wall’s hook.

* * *

_Iris Richardson_. She’d even had the temerity to sign the papers with her name, a name she had sworn to him she would never again need. Mycroft muttered and shook his head. With his pen, he scratched at the sermon in his hand. ‘Rebirth’ was too weak a word. Something better was needed.

“Revival… no. Comeback, no. Reawakening, renewal… Restoration—”

Mycroft stopped at the window. Evening had seeped into the village and everything was covered in a dark blue. Mycroft peered close into the street below. Underneath him, through the dark, he saw his brother standing in the doorway of his shop. Some of the villagers were filing out of the shop, shaking Sherlock’s hand and saying words of thanks to him. At the end of the line was Anthea. She beamed a smile as she stepped out of the shop. Her eyes were brightened, her manner happy, her hair let down around her shoulders. She glanced towards her fingers as she talked. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Her fingers were marked with chocolate. He focused back on her face, on her lips. His frown sank into a glower when he read her lips. The word ‘stay’ had passed them with ease. Mycroft’s nose was almost pressed against the glass, his breath creating clouds on the window, as he watched Anthea say goodbye. Folding her coat over her arms, she walked on down the street. Sherlock entered back into the shop. The shop door was locked behind him.

Mycroft stepped back from the window. His fist was clenched as he began to pace. He was like a madman, pacing up and down the length of his office as he muttered over and over—

He stopped. Cleared his head. He breathed. He would not lose control; he could not lose control. He had already lost control of the village, lost the support of the villagers.

Mycroft stormed towards his desk, throwing the sermon into the bin. He reached out. His hand gripped at a letter knife, sharp enough to cut paper but little else. Mycroft glanced towards the window. He caught a last glimpse of the papers lying on his desk. _Iris Richardson_ , in the blue ink of a fountain pen, the letters prettily arranged. Turning on his heels, he stormed out of his office and down the stairs.

* * *

He broke in through the back window, sliding one leg through and then the other and then his body. The leather of his shoe squeaked against the metal of the sink’s tap and he paused. Held his breath. No alarm was raised. Carefully, he turned and climbed down from the worktop. The main work table in the centre of the kitchen was covered with the remnants of work—tools and scraps of chocolate. Mycroft strode through the kitchen. He brushed at the material of his waistcoat and the knees of his trousers, muddied by flour and cocoa from the worktop. He pushed open the kitchen door. Still nobody woke. He walked across the shop floor, his shoulders hunched as he approached the display. A side door, locked by a latch, led into the display. He silently opened it and walked into the narrow space that lay between the display and the window. The sight before him was rich with dark and milk chocolates piled high. White silk hung behind the chocolates and the statues. A woman, made of dark chocolate, held a basket of fruit in her arms. Her eyes were closed in a serene pose. Mycroft lashed out at it. Her head went tumbling. A rich scent filled Mycroft’s nose. A chocolate cake, drenched in rich icing, was decorated with golden paint. The paint formed tendrils of shapes that led towards shards of chocolate collected in the middle of the confection. Mycroft stabbed at its heart, and cut down through its body. Chocolate rounds were collected on a plate. Those went too, each one hacked and chopped. The silver knife glinted and Mycroft surveyed what was left. Cocoa beans collected in clay bowls. Red grapes gathered up in porcelain. Pomegranates tucked in a circular wicker basket, golden silk tucked underneath their rounded shapes. Triangles of chocolate, squares of chocolate, circles staggered into a pile of plates. Mycroft lunged for them with the letter knife. He stabbed, whacked, slashed. Chocolate flew and tumbled from their pedestals, the rich variety moulding into an irretrievable mess.

Mycroft stopped. His bottom lip tingled.

It was a crumb. A crumb of milk chocolate settled against the pink flesh.

His tongue darted out, touching at it.

The knife clattered against the floor. A triangle, fallen from its perch, lay just in front of him. A marble triangular swirl of white and brown. He clutched it between forefinger and thumb and brought it to his mouth. His tongue darted out again and tasted. His mind flew without thought and he bit. The bitter, sweet cream of the chocolate fell down his throat and he breathed out, long and hard, until it became a laugh.

He laughed lowly. Laughed and laughed, his fingers grabbing greedily at the chocolate, his mouth taking everything he could give it. Teeth crushed against food. Milk, dark, white, bitter; his jaw chomped at the bit, the sweetness always slipping easily down his throat. Drops, droplets, of pure bliss engulfed his mouth and flooded his tongue. Laughing, laughing, he laughed— no. His cheeks were wet. Crying. He had cried and was crying still. Crying, crying… His body wracked with the force of it as he slumped and staggered forwards. The scent of chocolate overwhelmed him. His fingers, sticky and dry, slammed against the glass of the display door. He pushed it open with a gasp, his mouth wet with wanting. Crying, crying, crying… crashing, crashing. One final choked sob and he fell to the cold shop floor. Gasps replaced sobs as he rolled onto his back. His eyelids fell closed and the gasps slipped away.

* * *

A hand pressed into his shoulder. Mycroft mumbled sleepily and curled his legs to his chest. He tucked his hands underneath his head. The hand squeezed his shoulder impatiently.

The clink of a glass woke him. He blinked and rolled slowly onto his back. A glass was stood on the floor in front of him. Mycroft looked up. Sherlock, a blue robe over a t-shirt and pyjamas, stood over him.

“I wouldn’t ask for a mirror. It isn’t a flattering portrait.”

Another figure entered the frame of his vision. Their blue eyes, soft and gentle, came closer as they crouched down at his side. Anthea. Mycroft cringed away from her look.

“Sir? Are you feeling alright?”

“I have – somewhat of a headache,” Mycroft admitted, still lying on the shop floor.

“That’s what the water’s for,” Sherlock said. He didn’t try to hide his smirk. Mycroft sat up, wincing at the sensation of his head. Anthea reached down for the glass, and pressed it into his hand. Mycroft risked a peek at her. She did not wear a smirk at his predicament, but wore concern in her blue eyes. Mycroft looked away and smoothly drank. With every sip, his headache faded.

“Brother,” he said eventually, sliding his gaze up towards Sherlock. The corner of his mouth turned up with a smirk. “You need to ramp up security.”

Sherlock eyed the ruined display.

“Clearly.”

* * *

The kitchen tap ran clear. Running a cloth underneath the water, Anthea twisted at the material before she turned towards him. Mycroft stood at the worktop, his palm pressed against the edge of the wood. He had always allowed himself to be seen through a lens but stood where he was, his tie askew and his clothes rumpled and his skin muddied with chocolate, he found the feat impossible. Anthea stepped closer to him, asking for his palm. The impossibility increased.

Gently she wiped the sticky marks of chocolate from the pale, thin flesh of his palm and his fingers.

“You helped the Travellers, when the fire took place,” he remarked, almost sounding dumb. “And now you’re helping me. Why?”

Anthea eyed him as she folded the cloth over in her fingers. She leaned forward to daub at the edge of his jaw. “You can figure it out, Mycroft.” She aimed a look at him. “You’re clever.”

“Cleverer than my brother,” he drawled. Anthea giggled, but Mycroft’s mood sobered. Anthea returned the cloth to the tap, wetting it. She pressed it to his other hand, making him straighten up. There was silence as she drew the cold cloth in soft, small circles over his palm up towards his wrist. He never tolerated much physical contact. Often, he went out of his way to avoid the possibilities of it. With her, it seemed logical; it seemed to be a piece of the puzzle.

“I apologise for the state you found me in this morning Anthea,” he murmured.

She held the cloth of his skin. A beat, a moment. With her other hand, she sank her hand into his.

“I’m just glad you did something for once,” she whispered.

Outside, the morning bells of the church began to ring.

* * *

Lestrade bent his head and closed his eyes as Sally placed the stole onto his neck. She smoothed the material down as he straightened up. Her lips were thinned, and her tone was tight.

“How do you think you’ll get on in the sermon?” She raised an eyebrow, staring at him. “Without Mycroft Holmes holding your hand?”

Lestrade looked sheepish. “Well, actually Sal – I gave him one of my old sermons, from when we were in our old parish.” His eyes twinkled with a grin, pride in his features. Sally’s mouth widened into a returning smile. “He’s been so busy, he hardly noticed.”

Her hands dropped from around his neck. Sally blinked, and her look softened. “Greg—”

“It was attending that party I think. Made me realise that you,” Greg stepped forward and took her hands in his, holding his wife’s gaze, “are more important than anyone’s approval. Always will be.”

Stood in the middle of the vestry, Sally threw her arms around her husband’s neck and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

There was a brief look of surprise on Mycroft Holmes’ face when Greg stepped up to the lectern and began his sermon; it was a look that soon faded when his assistant threaded her hand into his and soothingly rubbed circles into the back of his hand. Instead, his mouth widened with a natural, light smile.

A realisation, as Father Lestrade delivered his sermon, seemed to sweep over the villagers. It spilled out into the festival outside, where the villagers browsed stalls and admired jugglers, dancers and musicians. Sherlock was among them, offering out chocolate that they admired and ate with warm smiles and bright words. _Tranquilite_ was a seductive ideal. To hide behind class and the prestige of family, it allowed one to hide from the tangled threads and puzzles that made up the life of every day. Yet, as Father Lestrade told his flock, life was never something to shy away from.

* * *

Summer came in the footsteps of spring, and over the coming months, the villagers began to notice a change in the air. A westerly wind had begun to blow through the village, soft and warm. With it, the air grew thicker and it seemed to take with it, bit by bit, the idea of routine. Relationships were formed and defined. Lovers became friends, and friends became lovers. Lovers became husband and wife. Through it all, Sherlock remained in his chocolate shop. He continued to offer an odd comfort to those in need, and solved problems where one might’ve thought, at first, there were none.

The bells of the church rang loud as Sherlock worked in his kitchen. The mid-June sun was hot and high in the afternoon, and the westerly wind was blowing strong. The ends of Sherlock’s hair were damp and stuck to his neck and forehead while he stirred and chopped and cooked and worked. From his workplace, he heard distant chatter and conversation. He worked harder. Paid by Theresa’s parents, the wedding of Martin and Theresa had been an expectedly lavish affair, in spite of the protestations of both bride and groom. The reception’s food was expected to be just as opulent, as luxurious. Sherlock had slipped away from the congregation after the ceremony to make some last minute adjustments.

The shop door shut with a clang. A tentative knock came on the glass of one of the counters. Leaving his work to one side, Sherlock headed out into the shop.

Molly was dressed in a blouse and trousers, a tweed jacket over her shirt. Her hair was brushed back into a ponytail, and a scarf trailed around her neck to hang down her front. He focused only on two things: the box in her hand and the smile on her lips.

“Roisin’s waiting for me,” she started. She couldn’t hide her smile. “We, um, couldn’t really stay away.”

Sherlock walked towards her, his grin growing. He came to a stop in front of her and she tilted her chin upwards to look at him. Her brown eyes sparkled. He nodded once to the chocolate box.

“Did I get it right?”

“Hm… no.” She laughed as he rolled his eyes, but it was his turn to laugh when he noticed how her gaze moved towards the counter and the hot chocolate stand beside it. He shook his head and cupped lightly at her neck. The pad of his thumb ghosted over her collarbone.

“Should’ve known.” Bending down, he touched his mouth to hers, a soft invitation. He felt her smile against him as she reached up to her toes and pressed herself close to him. The chocolate box dropped to the floor as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders to hold him tight. They kissed, and the both of them knew they were home.


End file.
